Boy: Beginning
by Elizabeth England
Summary: From conception to adulthood, this is the story of the son of Darth Vader. The first in a series. How Vader came to raise his child. AU. Rating for safety.
1. Chapter 1

Please note:

1) This is an AU in which Vader is (mostly) raised by Palpatine. Therefore, he was never trained by the Jedi, he has no personal relationship with Obi-Wan, he never dueled the man on Mustafar, and he has no burns/missing limbs. Most importantly, however, he never met Padme. Thus the child is NOT Luke. But I hope you'll like him anyway.

2) I've tinkered every so slightly with the timeline so that some ages are a little off-canon: Jix and the Rebellion were born earlier, that sort of thing. So try to resist the urge to point it out in the reviews. :)

Disclaimer: If I owned Star Wars, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction about it.

Chapter One

"We are here today," proclaimed the Emperor, an expression of great displeasure on his face, "to discuss an enemy of the Empire." Several of the councilors in the room looked at each other uneasily. "It is not the Rebellion, an enemy whose tactics and purpose we know, but another, the so-called Purple Sky."

The looks became even more uneasy. Standing in the corner of the room, ready to serve whenever the Emperor required her, Head Chamberlain Kaja Or'Zee thought each man looked more nervous than usual. She knew why: Purple Sky was a dangerous topic. Discussing it had ignited the Emperor's wrath on more than one occasion, usually resulting in the death of some nearby unfortunate.

"I don't need to describe to you the activities of Purple Sky," said the Emperor, standing slowly and striding to his right, his hand tracing along the table hypnotically. Kaja caught several councilors staring at it in fascination, as if unable to take their eyes off it. "But I will describe them again anyway. Since it seems, at least," the man's tone sharpened dangerously, and a few councilors flinched back, "that you have forgotten about the problem; so little progress has been made."

A few of the men shuddered as the Emperor began to slowly circle the conference room, his eyes glittering, much like a predator sizing up its prey before the kill.

"A year ago," announced the Emperor, his voice ringing throughout the room, "an enemy of the Empire emerged that stylized itself as the Purple Sky. This humanoid, who disguises his true appearance beneath a purple mask and robes, first contacted myself by _hacking into_ the palace communications systems. It found _my personal hologram number_, which it then used to contact me and offer me the following ultimatum: to allow the passage of Economic Trade Route Bill 223, or else it would release the locations and defense codes of every military base in the Elrood Sector to the Rebellion. I, of course, refused. The cost, however," said the Emperor, his voice thick with anger, "was staggering."

A breathless silence filled the hall as the Emperor paused, leaned forward, and braced his hands on the surface of the conference table. "This has since happened," he snarled, fury resonating in his voice, "six times in the past year alone!"

He swept away from the table angrily and resumed his path around it. "Our intelligence operatives have both failed to find the leak and have failed to trace the offending holograms whenever they come in. We have, thus far, no lead on our enemy. This is a failure _I will not_ tolerate."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Kaja imagined every councilor's mind was flicking back to the unfortunate fate of Tribi Zhennou, the late head of intelligence. The Emperor had executed him unusually mercilessly the night before. She had heard from her staff that there had been blood everywhere.

"The responsibility," the Emperor proclaimed ominously, "for finding this slime is being passed onto _you_. I hope, for your sake, you do not fail."

The councilors looked at each other in something akin to panic. At last one of the stupider ones asked timidly, "But what of Lord Vader?"

As one, all the councilors in the room turned to the far corner, where Prince Xizor and Lord Vader stood in silence.

Lord Vader, thought Kaja, her gaze turning to him, cut a mysterious and terrifying figure. Taller than most men and swathed head to toe in black cloth and leather, he looked like something right out of a horror holovid. Not an inch of his skin showed. A cowl perpetually shadowed his head, and beneath it was a blood-red mask that made chills go up and down Kaja's spine. Everything about the Sith was a dangerous mystery—who he was, where he was from, even what species he was. His voice was disguised with a vocabulator, and the resulting tone could give even the strongest men nightmares.

For a moment, everyone but the Emperor seemed transfixed by his terrifying visage. "Lord Vader?" the Emperor finally asked coolly, drawing everyone's attention back to him. "Governor Maros," he said condescendingly, "intelligence investigations are not Lord Vader's responsibility. They're _yours_. Each Moff, each governor, has a responsibility to undercover spies in his own realm." His voice hardened. "So I expect results from each and every one of you." The men cringed back.

Eyeing them with disgust, the Emperor turned away. "Get to it!"

Silence descended on the hall, and then as one the councilors scrambled out of their seats, practically racing out the door, not wishing to stay a moment longer lest the Emperor change his mind about killing one of them.

Only Vader and Xizor remained. Kaja watched them out of the corner of her eye as she cleaned up the mess made by the councilors' hasty departure. There was something odd about the way the two were standing. Neither of the two had reason to be tense; the meeting didn't concern them. Yet they seemed like they were barely restraining themselves, so strong was the hostility emanating from them. Of course, Kaja had heard about their infamous rivalry, but she had never imagined it would be to this degree. It was obvious they could barely stand one another. As she wiped down the table, she marveled at the two's ability to communicate their utter hatred for each other without so much as moving an inch.

-Scene Break-

In the Emperor's Retreat, only three people knew who existed behind Vader's mask. One was obviously Vader himself. The second, of course, was the Emperor. The last was Wrenga Jixton.

At the moment, the lattermost was lounging in the living room of Vader's quarters, his eye half on the door, waiting for Vader himself to appear. Jix knew Vader was attending a late-night court meeting, and he could only imagine the indomitable temper the Dark Lord would return in. Yet Jix didn't worry for himself. Vader couldn't afford to kill him.

Oh, it wasn't that Vader couldn't find a new personal assassin/special agent/slave-in-everything-but-name. But it was that Jix was the absolute closest thing the man had to a confidante, and both he and Vader knew Vader was unlikely to find one of those again. The only reason Jix put up with the man was because, one, he owed Vader, and two, he had known the man before he had turned completely into a cold, unfeeling statue; back then, he had only been somewhat of a statue.

Sure enough, about ten minutes later, the door slammed open and Vader strode in, his cloak swirling angrily behind him. He slammed shut the door and rounded on Jix.

"What are you doing here?" he growled. "You are supposed to be on Alsakan!"

"But Naboo is so much prettier," Jix mock-whined.

An ominous silence followed. Jix didn't need to see Vader's face to know the man was glowering at him.

Jix explained quickly: "The target has already been eliminated."

A pause. "_Already?_" Disbelief colored Vader's tone. "You are good, Jix, but are not that good."

Jix scowled in irritation. "I wish I could take credit for the job," he said pointedly, "and be able to say I planned and executed a brilliant, untraceable assassination in the first four standard hours I arrived on Alsakan, but alas, that would be a lie." He added the last part a little sarcastically.

Vader paused, processing this. "What happened?" he asked, lowering his hood and slipping off his mask. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

"Well," started Jix flippantly, "I was halfway done making an absolutely brilliant plan involving two moving speeders and a canister of—"

"_Jix_."

"Oh, all right," he said irritably. Vader never wanted to hear about any of his brilliant plans. "Cut out the interesting parts, I get it. Long story short, another bounty hunter got him soon after I arrived planet-side. He made a whole mess of the thing—big explosion, several other people dead, police caught him. I checked out their interviews—apparently our little dead friend had some bad business with the Hutts. Jabba put a price out on him."

"You are sure the bomb wasn't staged?" Vader asked sharply, narrowing his eyes. "He _is_ dead?"

"Knew you'd ask that," said Jix with a grin. "Ran the DNA test myself on the remains of his brain. Trust me, he's definitely dead."

"Hmm," Vader grunted. "At least one thing went right today."

He picked himself up off the wall and strode to his liquor cabinet, pouring himself a glass of Tarul wine. He took a large gulp from it before setting it down.

"That bad, huh?" asked Jix, raising an eyebrow.

Vader snorted. "Xizor was there. He makes every meeting bad."

That was something Vader would only ever confess to Jix. Jix couldn't even begin to count the times Vader had mentioned how much he hated Xizor; Jix had no doubt if the man wasn't the Emperor's favorite after Vader, he would be dead by now. But Jix couldn't really blame Vader. He couldn't much stand the Falleen himself: Xizor was a slimy sort of fellow.

"He's going to be here for another three weeks," Vader revealed, draining the first glass of wine and pouring himself another. "Apparently the Emperor's pet project might require a few more guns, and he's hired Xizor to provide them. Tonight, they're scheduled to happily start chatting away about all sorts of special weapons to give the thing—ones that will no doubt drain the Imperial budget even more." He downed another glass of wine. "As if that technological terror has any real power." Utter scorn laced Vader's voice as his words turned to the Death Star. "It's insignificant in comparison to the Force. A single person in tune with the Force could take it out with a single shot." His lip curled.

Jix rolled his eyes. He had heard this particular rant several times. "Lord V," he said seriously, "you need to take your mind off that thing."

"How can I?" Vader snarled. "When it's such a colossal mistake? With the money we're pouring into that project, we could build over a 300 Star Destroyers or feed all of Imperial Center!" He gripped his wine glass so hard it shattered in his hand, and he glanced down at it in surprise. Then he let loose a stream of profanities that would have made Jix blush had he been any less seasoned of a spacer.

That was the final straw. Jix knew the man had to be pretty upset to curse _that _badly. "Lord V," he said, standing up slowly, "You need to get laid."

There was a brief silence in which Vader stared at him as if he didn't quite believe what he had just heard. At last he said, in shock, "What?"

Jix almost sniggered at the man's stunned expression but caught himself just in time. Instead he articulated, slowly and clearly, "You. Need. To. Get. Laid. It would do you wonders. _Trust me._ Just get out of the palace. Go clubbing or something. _Get laid_. You'll feel a lot better about Xizor's presence in the morning."

Vader just stared at him. "Jix," he said at last, "I haven't had enough alcohol to do that."

Jix smiled slowly. He grabbed another bottle of wine and another glass and shoved them both into Vader's hands. "Then," he said sweetly, "drink up."

-Scene Break-

Jix had to hand it to the man: he could handle his alcohol. Vader had downed practically the entire bottle of wine and hadn't even gotten tipsy. He simply became slightly more open-minded, but enough so that after a good hour of nagging, he finally relented and agreed to go into the nearby town of Moenia with Jix. Still, Vader insisted, he wasn't going out to get laid. He was just going out to get out of the palace; Xizor's presence, he claimed, made the atmosphere suffocating. Jix didn't care how Vader justified it to himself as long as the man came.

"You're going to need to get out of your horror-vid outfit," Jix remarked as Vader disappeared into his bedroom.

"I know." Vader's voice managed to sound irritated despite being muffled by the door.

A minute later Vader emerged in plain black pants and a matching shirt, his lightsaber somehow disguised on his pant leg. Jix examined him briefly before giving him the okay. It would've been too much to ask for the man to put on a little color.

The two sped out of the Emperor's Retreat in one of Vader's black speeders, the kind with windows that let you see outside but allowed no one to see inside. They spent the next twenty minutes shaking the numerous political spies following them before slipping anonymously into Moenia.

Jix was full of suggestions as to where to go. "There's the Singing Quill Club, the Nine Muses Club, the Exlar Kirr Club, the Bradeo Club—"

Vader's hands tightened on the controls. He spoke through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to a _club_, Jix."

Jix rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Only 25 year old in the Galaxy who doesn't want to go to clubs." When Vader glowered at him, Jix knew he had been heard. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "Let's compromise."

Vader gave him a warning look that said quite clearly compromise wasn't his strong suit.

"Hear me out." Jix held up his hands. "I know of a place called Ixi-Mari that has a really great atmosphere, serves meals all night. Downstairs in the basement is a really great dance scene if you get bored eating upstairs. It's going to be one of the few, non-club places open at this time of night. Sound okay, Lord V?"

Vader appeared reluctant, so Jinx said, pointedly, "If not, we could just head back to the palace."

Vader swore under his breath. "_Fine._"

-Scene Break-

Moenia was said to be Naboo's retreat for the suffering artist, and Mirté was a suffering artist in need of a retreat. She arrived in the city late in the evening, and, after checking into her hotel, headed straight out for a night on the town. Soon she came across a café offering a performance poetry show, which featured the poems of Ezza Gaius, a man famous for writing about heartbreak. It was an absolutely perfect theme for Mirté, so she sat down and drowned in hers and Ezza Gaius's sorrows.

Mirté normally wasn't into the gloom and doom scene. As an artist, she was all for rich, organic shapes and bright colors. She enjoyed the random and erratic. But then had come that terrible fight with Paolo, her lover of three years, and it seemed like inside her all the bright and organic shapes had shriveled into black morass.

_Maybe I could get into this_, she thought, closing her eyes and sipping her fruity drink, _do a series on black and grey shapes. My agent would like it. Dapé is always encouraging me to do something new._

"And that was our last performance!" the owner of the café announced, breaking her out of her reverie. "Please leave all tips at the foot of the stage, and if you have any requests for next time, please see me up front—"

Mirté ignored his speech, slipped a bill onto the table to pay, and ducked out of the café before the crowd could start moving. It was past midnight, and most places were closed, but Mirté didn't want to go back to the hotel. She wanted to lose herself. Across the street, she spotted a restaurant still open, and so, dumping the remains of her drink in a trash receptacle, made her way to it.

The restaurant itself busy, so it was a good thing Mirté wasn't in the mood for food. Instead of seating her at one of the tables, at her request the waiter guided her across the room to the steps leading down to the disco basement. Someone had locked the door to it, and the waiter cursed as he fumbled around for the keys. The wait allowed Mirté the time to gaze around the room. In the corner, she eyed two young men sitting at a secluded table. One was facing her; with his dark hair and eyes, he looked a bit like Paolo. She couldn't see the face of the other one—only that he had golden hair, so different from ex's.

"Here you go," said the waiter, as the sound of music suddenly blared in her ears.

Mirté brought her eyes back to him, thanked him, and descended into the welcoming, throbbing mass of anonymity.

-Scene Break-

For the past hour, Jix had been trying to convince Vader to go down to the club. "Come on, Lord V," he cajoled. "It would be _fun_."

"You," said Vader slowly and carefully, as if he had explained this several times before, "are not making it worth my time. You have yet to give me any good reason to do so."

Jix scowled. Vader was a difficult man to convince of anything. Jix had exhausted every line of reasoning but one. "I'll do that Septaki job for you," he offered suddenly, causing Vader to pause in stirring his drink.

"Not enough," Vader said at last, taking a sip and setting down his cup again. "I could have compelled you to do the Septaki job anyway."

True. Jix racked his brain for something Vader _couldn't_ compel him to do. "I could…" he floundered, tapping his fingers on the table and staring at the ceiling. "Hmm." Wow. He had never realized how strong of a hold Vader had on him before.

He would have to be tricky about this. "Well," he said carefully, "there is a gift I have been thinking about giving you. But perhaps I shouldn't."

Vader stopped and stared at him incredulously. "Are you trying to reprimand me the way a parent does their child? Behave, or you won't get that present I bought you for Carnival Week?"

Jix winced. When Vader said it like that, it did sound bad. But still. "If I try to bribe you any other way, you can force me to do it," he tried justifying himself. If it worked… "But you can't pluck the name of the gift out of my mind, and if you try to force me to give it to you you'll never know if it was the real gift or not." He resisted the urge to add that this was a gift Vader would actually enjoy—that Artoo unit Jix had won in that game of sabaac was the spunkiest little droid he had ever seen.

Vader snorted. "I'd never know if it was the real gift even if I did go down there." He jerked his head toward the basement door.

Jix frowned, not liking the implication. "I wouldn't break our deal," he said, sounding insulted. "I swear on Aridus."

Vader shook his head. "No."

"Oh, come on!" Jix exclaimed, exasperated. "Not everyone will be dancing down there. A lot of people will be just talking on the side. They'll be serving drinks." He added the last part enticingly. He could tell Vader was in the mood to drink.

"_No_."

It took several more minutes of whining, at which point Jix suspected Vader was simply sick of the topic, before he was able to convince the man to come down with him.

-Scene Break-

Mirté saw him standing on the side talking to the Paolo look-alike, a drink in his hand, a serious expression on his face. He looked like an angel, this man. Golden curls, high cheekbones, a solid, masculine chin and darkly-tanned skin. His eyes were an impossibly deep blue, and they glowed with intensity as he spoke. Mirté couldn't imagine anyone could look more different from Paolo. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she wanted to know him.

So she kept him in the corner of her eye, watching him carefully as she moved with the music. She noticed several other girls admiring him as well—but too bad. _She_ was determined to get to him first. She moved closer, and a minute later the look-alike moved away to get more drinks.

She made her move.

-Scene Break-

When Jix turned back from the bar, Vader was lounging against the wall, talking quietly to a woman. Jix couldn't see much of her—just the back of her slim body and long brown hair. He recognized the expression on Vader's face, though: he was interested in her.

Jix shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him that a man as serious and as terrifying as Vader attracted women the way honey attracted flies whenever he dropped his mask. And he could be perfectly charming, too—look! Jix thought. The woman was already giggling. Jix could see it in the way her shoulders were shaking.

Jix took a sip of his drink and leaned against the wall, watching the two. Sure enough, Vader made his move fairly quickly. One minute the two were talking, and the next the girl had grabbed the Sith Lord's hand, and he was following her out of the club and up the stairs.

"I suppose I'll be walking home this evening," Jix muttered, taking another sip. There was no way Vader would allow him to pilot his speeder. Then Jix caught sight of a bubbly blond girl with big green eyes and a great rack. "Or not."

-Scene Break-

The next morning, Mirté woke up alone in her hotel room. On the pillow beside her was a single white rose with a black ribbon tied around it. She inhaled its fragrance, smiling at the memory of the previous night, before rising to get dressed. As she did, she noticed a message waiting for her on her comlink.

It was from Paolo. He said he was so sorry for what he had said. "Please, baby," he begged, "let's get together and talk things through. I really want things to work out between us. You're the one. I know it."

Mirté listened to the recording, glanced down at the white rose, and began to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

It started with fatigue. At first Mirté didn't notice it, since she had had a very busy week, what with five of her pieces going on display and inspiration coming in for a sixth. Being tired seemed natural. But then she started getting strong cravings, for, of all things, otta milk, followed by bouts of nausea so intense she was barely able to leave the bathroom. And poor Paolo—he was just trying to be helpful, but she kept on snapping at him, or, alternatively, bawling her eyes out in his arms, and he just accepted it, probably because he still felt guilty about the way in which they had split.

But still, despite all the signs, she didn't begin to suspect the truth until she realized she was overdue for her period.

She took one of the home tests first, when Paolo had left for the art supply store. It read: "Positive. Please see a doctor to confirm and begin care." She burst into tears and sat quietly on the toilet seat, weeping, until she heard Paolo come home. Then she brushed away the tears and went out to meet him.

"Darling," she said, her voice wavering just a bit. He stilled immediately, a concerned look crossing his face.

"Mirté, what is it?"

"Darling, I have something to tell you." She took a deep breath. She didn't even know how to begin to say it, but there was nothing for it. "Darling…I think I may be pregnant."

He froze in shock, and she hurried on anxiously, before she lost her nerve, "And…do you remember?...I told you about my night in Moenia? Well, there's a chance—a very small chance, the odds are against it—that it's not, the baby's not…" She couldn't say it, but he understood.

"Not mine," he said dully, sitting down heavily.

What did that sort of reaction mean? She peeked up at him through her fringe, quite nervous. "Baby…what should we do?"

He was silent for a long time, no doubt having to process both the fact that she was pregnant and that the baby might not be his. "We should get a paternity test," he determined at last, "to see if the baby's mine or not."

"And if it's not?" Mirté's voice cracked.

He shook his head. "I don't know."

The wait for the appointment seemed to go on forever. Mirté could think of nothing else the day before and the morning of. She continually berated herself. How could she have been so stupid? She and Paolo had been broken up one night! _One night!_ He had spent the night drinking away his sorrows, and she had spent it in another man's arms. She was so stupid!

What if it _was _his? The stranger's? The thought was so terrible to contemplate that Mirté felt nauseated every time she did. The odds were against it, she knew, but still—_what if?_

Mirté spent the hours before the appointment staring anxiously at the wall, or out the window, or into space, wringing her hands nervously, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Paolo was abnormally quiet, too, often glancing at her with a peculiar expression on his face.

What if the baby was Paolo's? She glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, her heart skipping a beat when she saw him. Would Paolo want to keep the baby? She thought he did. She thought…he might want a child with her. The baby just had to be his. It just had to be.

They left for the appointment the afternoon after their conversation. Paolo navigated their speeder from their countryside retreat to the nearby city of Spinnaker. Mirté gripped her armrests tightly the whole way, and when at last they zoomed into the city, she thought she might throw up again.

"Can you make it?" Paolo asked in concern, glancing quickly at her before returning his attention to the road.

"How close are we?" Mirté asked through gritted teeth as they sped past Navy Plaza.

"We're almost there," Paolo promised. "Less than a standard minute."

"Good," she gasped out.

Paolo zoomed up next to a large, green-dome building, so typical of Nabooan architecture, and Mirté clambered out of the speeder immediately, rushing inside past the protesting receptionist droid and into the bathroom.

Paolo parked the speeder and entered to see everyone in the waiting room staring at him. He smiled awkwardly and headed up to the receptionist droid, which had somehow managed to look aggravated. "That was Mirté Apana," he said quietly, "She's here for a paternity test."

"Ah," said the droid, suddenly understanding, as it zoomed to the back of the office to get their paperwork.

-Scene Break-

The receptionist droid escorted them back to a small, white patient room empty except for the normal stool, patient bed, and tiny camera on the wall. Mirté always hated the camera, but it was necessary to monitor the medical droids. She sat on the bed, facing away from it, and Paolo sat next to her on the stool. They held hands and waited anxiously for the doctor droid to arrive.

"Baby," asked Mirté quietly, "What do you want to do if the baby's not yours?"

Paolo's shoulders tensed. "Honestly, babe," he finally said, "I don't think I can be the father to a child that's not mine. I'm sorry, I just can't, I can't—"

"I know." Mirté's voice cracked. "And I don't want to be a mother to a baby that's not yours." A tear slid down her face.

Paolo's face became tender, and he brushed away her tear with his thumb. "Then we'll get rid of it, babe. It's okay. It'll be like it never happened."

Mirté nodded anxiously. "And if it's yours?"

A slow smile spread across Paolo's face. He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. "Well, I've always thought we'd make good parents."

Mirté beamed at him.

Some time later, the medical droid whizzed into the room. "A paternity test?" it asked, its lights blinking as it processed the info.

"Yes." Paolo leaned forward. "I would like to determine if I am the baby's father."

"We are not equipped to do personal, comparative DNA tests at this time," the droid informed him severely.

"_What?_" Mirté demanded.

The droid turned to her. "We are only equipped to do wide, comparative DNA tests," it informed her, "in preparation for the effectiveness of Law 432A, which requires that the father be notified of an impending pregnancy."

"You're going to tell the father?" Mirté asked, panicked. That was a complication she didn't need to deal with!

"Not if you do not wish it," said the droid, sounding exasperated. "The law has not yet gone into effect."

Mirté felt a wave of relief. Beside her, Paolo's grip on her hand tightened. "What is involved in this DNA testing?" She could already see him mentally tabulating a list of other clinics in town in case they needed to go to one of those.

"It will compare the baby's DNA against the Galactic DNA Databank," said the droid coolly, its beady eye landing on Paolo. "It will reveal the name of the child's father, whoever he may be, unless, of course, his DNA is classified. Should you be the father, sir, I will know."

That didn't sound so bad.

Paolo glanced at Mirté. "That okay, babe?"

Mirté nodded weakly. "Just do it."

The droid zoomed forward, a large needle extending from its arm.

-Scene Break-

The droid currently processing Mirté Apana's baby's DNA trolled down the stark, white corridors of the Spinnaker Medical Clinic. It did not think, per se, but its servomotors were currently processing something very peculiar about the baby's tissues. It had an abnormally high concentration of organelles called midichlorians, and the droid's programming was insisting that something used to be done about infants with high midichlorian counts. That information, however, had been erased from its memory.

So the droid trolled along, its servomotors straining unusually hard, till at last it turned into a small room filled with computers and droid outlets. It took another minute to complete processing the child's DNA, then it turned to the wall, extended its arm, and plugged in. It accessed the Galactic DNA Databank.

And froze.

-Scene Break-

The alert went immediately to the aide on duty at Vader's personal intelligence center on Coruscant. It was a Level 1 alert—so important the aide wasn't allowed to read it. He stared gaping at the computer screen for a moment, his mind spinning, before leaping into action. He pressed the button for Lord Vader's comlink with trembling fingers, almost breathless, his thoughts whirring wildly in his head. He had never seen a Level 1 alert before; he had never even heard of Vader receiving one. His mind raced with a thousand terrible possibilities as to what it could mean.

"Lord Vader, sir," he said breathlessly.

"What is it?" Vader snapped. He was on his way to another meeting about that cursed Purple Sky, and the prospect was putting him in a bad mood.

"Sir, you have a Level 1 alert."

There was a brief silence on the other end. "I will be there shortly."

Two standard minutes later, Vader strode into the monitoring room, snapped at the aide on duty to "Get out!" and slipped into the chair in front of the offending computer, going through the long process required to unlock the message.

As he read it, a variety of expressions crossed his face—shock, confusion, and anger, among others. When he was finished reading it, he had a dangerous expression on his face. He slowly stood, his fists clenched at his side, his back ramrod straight, before punching a button on his comlink.

"_JIX!_" he all but roared.

"Yeah, Boss?" came Jix's casual reply.

"Get you're a** up to the intelligence center _immediately!_"

There was a brief silence. "I'm on my way, Lord V."

Four standard minutes later, Jix strode through the door, and Vader pointed angrily to the screen. "Jixton," he said warningly, "Read it, and take care of it. That is now your only assignment." Before Jix could even open his mouth, Vader stalked out of the room, his cloak rippling angrily behind him.

Jix stared after him in confusion, then leaned down to glance at the screen. The title line said: "Alert Level 1—Subject 002's DNA pulled in paternity test."

Jix didn't understand. _Pulled in a paternity test?_ What exactly did that mean? It couldn't possibly mean…No, no way. That wasn't possible. Vader couldn't be…he couldn't have sired a…_could he?_ Jix felt as if someone had turned his entire world upside down. He reeled away from the computer screen, feeling slightly dizzy. Vader, pulled in a paternity test. It took Jix several minutes to at least get partially over the shock. When he did, he forced his mind back to Vader's instructions.

_Take care of it?_ What exactly did he mean by that? Jix was flabbergasted for several minutes.

There was that one, normal interpretation of 'take care of it,' but death wasn't something Jix could reverse if that wasn't what Vader had meant. Jix toyed briefly with the idea of comming Vader to clarify his instructions, but considering the man's mood, thought that might be unwise. What, then, did Vader want him to do?

At last Jix just hacked into the clinic's security system to get a better idea of what was going on. He flipped through several rooms' security tapes, until he came upon a live feed of a young girl and her boyfriend. The girl's back was to the camera, but there was something oddly familiar about her. It took a few minutes for the connection to make, and when it did, he groaned.

"I'll be lucky if he doesn't blame me for this," Jix muttered, rewinding the tape. He pressed the play button at a random spot, his mind still churning over what to do. He didn't want to kill a baby.

"What do you want to do if the baby's not yours?" The woman's voice came across slightly muffled on the tape.

Jix perked up and leaned closer. This could be important.

"Honestly, babe, I don't think I can be the father to a child that's not mine. I'm sorry, I just can't, I can't—"

"I know," the woman's voice cracked. "And I don't want to be a mother to a baby that's not yours."

"Then we'll get rid of it, babe. It's okay. It'll be like it never happened."

Jix stiffened. Get rid of it? But Vader…

"And if it's yours?"

"Well, I've always thought we'd make good parents."

Jix slowly leaned back, his thoughts whirring. So. If the droid came back and said the baby was anybody's but this man's, they would have an abortion—probably the very same day, to get it over with quickly. That couldn't happen. Jix needed more time to consider the situation.

Turning to the computer, he had it analyze the man's face, which was clearly visible, against the Galactic Facebank. Within seconds he had a name: Paolo Irmana. Jix smiled triumphantly and hacked into the databank of the droid that had first processed the baby's DNA.

-Scene Break-

It seemed like it took forever for the droid to return, and when it did, Mirté straightened up on the bed, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. "Well?" she asked breathlessly. Paolo's grip on her hand tightened.

The droid's lights blinked erratically for a few moments. "The father of your baby," it said at last, "is Paolo Irmana."

Mirté let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding. All of the sudden she felt incredibly light, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Turning to Paolo, she began to laugh.

-Scene Break-

Mirté Apana was a beautiful woman. Jix could hand Vader that much. Long brown hair, big brown eyes, and lush, full lips—any man would be lucky to have her for a night. And looking at her test scores, she seemed relatively smart academically. She had done well in school, though better in the social sciences and humanities than in mathematics and science. But where she was smart academically, Jix concluded, she was an absolute idiot socially.

The most obvious proof of this was in her idiot boyfriend, Paolo, some weird art type semi-famous for drawing squiggly lines and coloring them in badly. It astounded Jix that his art pieces sold for thousands of credits when they looked like they had taken him a grand total of two standard minutes to make. And the man was pretty sappy. His music list consisted of sung renditions of terrible dramatic poems, and Jix had caught him once or twice tearing up over a particularly maudlin song.

How did Jix know all this? He had spent the past three days clandestinely observing the couple, trying to decide what to do with the kid growing in Mirté Apana's amazingly flat stomach.

Now Jix was watching them again, discretely, from a park bench on a hill as they strode around one of Naboo's many lakes, holding hands and discussing nursery decorations. Paolo wanted to decorate the wall himself; Mirté wanted to decorate the wall herself. Jix recommended against both of those options.

Still, despite their dubious artistic skills, Jix had considered on more than one occasion simply letting the woman carry the baby term. Despite their idiocy, the two seemed fairly happy with each other, and letting them keep the baby would put the child in a positive, loving environment, with two parents financially stable enough to take care of him.

Three problems always reared in Jix's mind whenever he considered this. One, it seemed unfair and hurtful to deceive two people into loving a child. It would be unfair to Paolo to make him raise a child he thought was his, but wasn't. Though, Jix thought privately, the man was such a flake he kind of deserved it.

Second, though the two were idiots, it was possible that they were not so idiotic that, should the kid be born with blond hair and blue eyes, they would fail to question his parentage. Should they suspect for any reason the child wasn't Paolo's, it would then be fair to assume they would wonder why the test had proven he was. They might take the paternity test again, and learn the truth, and then what? Not only would it be devastating to all three of them, but they'd probably get suspicious as to how the results had been faked in the first place. That could conceivably lead them to the conclusion that the child's real father was someone important. That couldn't be allowed to happen.

And finally, there was the distinct possibility that this child would Force-sensitive like Vader. Not only would this be a pretty strong hint that the child wasn't Paolo's—but even worse, it could lead them to the conclusion that _Vader_ was the father. And if it didn't, the two would still be stuck raising a Force-sensitive child. It was highly unlikely the two were equipped to handle that. And besides, if the child was discovered sometime later by Imperials that didn't know he was Vader's son, he'd likely be executed—or worse, trained to become a Hand. No, the couple couldn't be permitted to keep the child. But Jix still regretted what had to be done.

-Scene Break-

Eight standard days later, at roughly 0100, Jix entered the Apana-Irmana house. The place was as quiet as a tomb, and he slipped upstairs without making a sound. On the third bedroom on the right, he found Mirté sleeping, Paolo's arm around her. Two quick puffs of sleeping gas in their direction ensured they were both out cold, and, quickly unwrapping Paolo's arm, Jix slung Mirté over his shoulder and tiptoed out of the room. Downstairs, he had a speeder waiting for him, and he quickly laid her inside it.

He drove to the Spinnaker Medical Clinic, keeping his eye half on the rear-view mirror, checking to make sure Mirté stayed asleep. If she woke up, any chance of her surviving this ordeal would be over—she couldn't be allowed to suspect that there was something even mildly unusual about the baby she was carrying. When Jix got to the clinic, he parked in its obscured parking garage and brought Mirté inside and up the stairs to an operating room, where five droids and a uterine tank stood ready nearby.

"Ensure she has the proper dose to keep her out cold," he ordered the nearest droid, and it rushed to do so.

"She is ready for the procedure," announced the droid, a standard minute later.

Jix glanced at the clock anxiously. "Then proceed."

The droid spread apart Mirté's legs, and the procedure commenced. Six standard minutes later, it extracted the embryo, carefully cocooned in protective fluid. The thing was the size of a pea. Jix, who had never seen anything like it, watched in awe. Immediately, the droid place the embryo in the uterine tank and sealed it in. A second later, the tank hissed ominously, and the droid stood by, monitoring the situation.

A minute later it said, "The embryo survived the procedure. It should be able to generate normally once stasis is lifted."

It was surprising how happy that made Jix. He exhaled in relief. "Good," he breathed, turning his eyes once more to Mirté. "Implant simulated embryo."

The droids rushed to do so, and a few minutes later the lead one turned to Jix. "Procedure has been completed. In approximately 10 standard hours, the subject will have a simulated miscarriage."

Jix felt the tiniest twinge of guilt at that. He had heard it was traumatic for a woman to experience a miscarriage. Still, if it was either that or die…"Other than that," he asked, "will there be any indications of the procedure?"

"Only a slight soreness in her pubic area," said the droid. "And fluids in this area indicate she has recently had sexual activity. It is likely that she will attribute the soreness to that."

"Good. And her sedation will wear off?"

"In approximately three hours, sir."

Jix smiled tightly. Dismissing the droid, he carried the uterine tank down to the speeder, and after that Mirté. At the house, he once more crept inside, careful not to make a sound, carrying the woman upstairs to her room and placing her lover's arm around her. He then fled the property, leaving no indication he had ever been there in the first place.

On his drive back to Spinnaker, his eyes constantly flicked to the uterine tank in the seat beside him. So strange to think that such a tiny life-form needed such big equipment to keep it alive. It was remarkably fragile. But Jix quickly shook himself of that line of thought. Soon he rounded a hill overlooking the city, stopped the speeder, and stepped out. There was only one thing left to do now. He brought his finger down to a button next to his comlink and gazed out at the quiet night vista of Spinnaker. He pressed the button.

In the distance, the Spinnaker Medical Clinic exploded into flames.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Jix popped into Vader's private palace rooms shortly before midnight. The man himself was still awake, working his way through some incredibly dull report no doubt, when Jix strode in and dumped the uterine tank on the table before him with a loud _clang._

Vader looked up and arched an eyebrow. "What is that?"

Jix smirked. This was going to be good. "Your kid."

Vader sat frozen for an extremely long time, stunned, with an expression on his face that indicated he didn't quite believe what he was hearing. At last he said, in a dangerously low voice, "_What?_"

Jix lounged against the wall. "Seeeee…." he explained slowly, "I wasn't quite sure what you _meant_ by 'take care of it' and I didn't _really _want to take the chance of misinterpreting it. So I cleaned up the mess on Naboo—the woman thinks she miscarried her lover's child—and brought the kid here, to you." He pushed the tank across the table to Vader. The man seemed unable to take his eyes off of it. "So, here you go, meet your son."

Vader seemed stunned. "What did you _do?_"

He inched a little closer to the tank, as if unable to stop himself.

"I froze the kid," said Jix, congratulating himself on the expression on Vader's face. If only he could take a holoimage of this moment. "I put the mom under—_don't worry_, she has no idea what happened—and extracted the embryo, put it in this artificial uterine, and froze it. The kid is still alive in there—just in stasis. All you have to do is press this little button on the side"—he showed Vader a small green button—"and the stasis will be lifted. In approximately eight months, you'll have a baby."

"And why," asked Vader, for the first time showing an expression other than shock: distaste, "would I _ever_ want to do that?" He inched away from the tank, as if to unconsciously prove his point.

Jix shrugged. "I dunno. I never understand your mind. But he's yours to deal with, if you want him."

"I _don't_," said Vader emphatically.

"Well, that's up to you. But me, I'd put a little more thought into it before throwing the kid away. I mean, who knows—in twenty years when you're old, alone, and miserable, you may want a child." He paused. "Well, you're alone and miserable now, so who knows. Maybe you could…"

Vader glowered at him, and Jix decided it was time to make his escape.

-Scene Break-

Vader stared at the tank, unable to believe that Jix had brought it to him. He had no idea what was going through the man's mind. He was pretty sure "Take care of it" had one very clear meaning, at least coming from Vader.

Vader continued staring at the tank, a little fascinated despite himself. He had known it was possible to grow babies to term in artificial tanks—the clones had to come from somewhere, didn't they?—but he had never thought the tank would be so small, and, well, portable. I mean, a baby could grow to term inside of _that?_ Were babies really that small?

Vader shook himself. He couldn't let himself get distracted. He didn't want a baby. In fact, he disliked children in general. Why Jix had brought the kid back to him alive was beyond him. All he needed to do was crush the tank and throw it away, and this incident would be behind him. He extended his hand and gathered the Dark Side, intending to crush the little tank like a drinking can.

A murmur in the Force stopped him. Vader tilted to his head, extending his Force awareness. It was very small, this murmur, and slightly familiar feeling. Where had he felt it before? And where was it coming from? Vader stretched out his Force-sense, searching for the source, checking every corner of his palace to no avail. Frowning, he retracted his awareness, and in doing so, casually swept the room. He froze, stunned, when he realized the murmur was coming from the tank.

_But it's just an embryo_, he mentally protested, o_nly a couple hundred cells big! How can it have a Force presence?_

The answer came immediately. The Force, Vader reminded himself, is in every living thing, and as of right now, the embryo is very much alive.

But no matter. He had snubbed out Force-lives both smaller and greater than this before. He extended his hand again, intending to crush the presence once and for all, but the thing's familiarity made him pause once more. Where _had _he felt a Force presence like that before? It certainly wasn't from him; he had no knowledge of what his own presence felt like. And he hadn't paid attention to the mother's Force presence; she had just been a casual lay…with unfortunate results. He racked his brain, and all the sudden it hit him like a lightning bolt that the embryo's Force presence vaguely resembled his mother's.

Immediately he tried to squash the thought—it was too dangerous—but it was too late: it had already lodged itself firmly in his brain. His hand shook as he tried to summon the Force. He tried to crush the baby—he _tried_—and failed. Rage filled him. That cursed weakness had returned!

He swore all manner of profanities as he lowered his hand. He couldn't direct the Dark Side at something the Force told him was so similar to his mother. He could use other methods to kill the embryo, but as soon as that thought crossed his mind the part of his brain most in tune with the Force protested strongly. He swore again.

At last he picked up the tank, strode into his bedroom, through his closet, and into the walk-in safe hidden behind his built-ins. He rarely went into the safe; it housed all the relics of his past life; this baby was one too. He dumped the tank on the ground next to the powered-down protocol droid, C-3PO, and strode out of the room, locking it behind him. He didn't look back.

-Scene Break-

A year later, Vader had almost managed to forget that he kept his son in a box in his closet. Indeed, for the first several months, he barely thought of the boy at all, so busy was he stamping out the rebellion, hunting down rogue Jedi, or searching for clues to the identification of Purple Sky. Jix, when he saw Vader, never asked about the child, though in the first couple weeks after the incident, Vader thought he saw the question in the man's eyes.

The year had been both busy and boring. A shakedown of the Corporate Alliance in the beginning of the year had sparked rebellion across a number of worlds, but those were so ruthlessly crushed in the first few months that little activity occurred in the latter months, so frightened were other worlds of the same fate.

The only interesting things that had occurred since then had had to do with Purple Sky. That impertinent humanoid had made contact several times, demanding certain laws be passed or certain maneuvers be done, else some damaging information be leaked to either the Rebellion or the public. The Emperor didn't want to admit it, but he had conceded to the blackmailer's demands on a few occasions; the information the humanoid threatened to release was simply too damaging to be allowed. Palpatine had since put even more agents on the case of finding the spy, and had even contacted Vader about it. _If you can_, his master had told him, _devote some of your resources to finding this malignance_. So Vader had set up a group dedicated to finding the creature, but little more. His specialty was war, not investigation. Purple Sky had not yet become his problem. So despite the interesting news in that arena, in the field, things remained boring.

Indeed, thought Vader, as he watched from the _Exactor's_ bridge as several Star Destroyers engaged in a practice maneuver, he was starting to get restless. All these practice drills were making him even more short-tempered than usual. He clenched his fingers at his side as the starship _Avenger_ executed an especially pathetic move. He made a mental note to strangle the captain of that ship after the drill.

Seeing the way the Dark Lord's hands were clenched at his sides, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that his aide approached him.

"What is it?" Vader asked, annoyance tingeing his voice. He hated how all his officers were so spineless.

"Lord Vader, sir," said the man, a bit of a tremble in his voice, "We have reports of suspected Jedi activity on Kashyyyk."

_At last_, thought Vader, whirling around and heading toward the lift, _something not mind-numbing! _"Tell the captain to set course for Kashyyyk immediately."

"B-but, my lord," stuttered the aide nervously, "What about the drill?"

Vader glanced over his shoulder just in time to see three Star Destroyers barely avoid crashing into each other. He felt his mood dip. "If we stay here," he growled, "You will be required to send over the captains of those ships."

The man gulped. "I will tell the captain to set our course immediately, sir."

-Scene Break-

That Kashyyyk looked like a pristine jewel from space was one of the great ironies of the Galaxy. This planet, that looked so beautiful and fragile from above, hosted one of the most inhospitable environments Vader had ever encountered. All manner of dangerous fauna and flora flourished here, including, of course, the Wookiees, who were some of the fiercest warriors Vader had ever seen, despite their barbarity.

It was no great surprise, he thought, that surviving Jedi would flee to Kashyyyk. He should have thought of it earlier. There were few other places where a Jedi could so easily hide their Force presence, so great was the life this planet produced.

"Pilot down to the outskirts of Kachirho," Vader ordered, as his shuttle left the hangar bay of the _Exactor. _"And don't expect a warm welcome," he added.

The shuttle descended into the foggy Kashyyyk atmosphere, flying over the deep blue waters of the archipelago and landing on a wooden platform built into the wall of a tree. Five stormtroopers ran out to meet it.

"Where are the Jedi?" Vader asked immediately, upon striding down the ramp. "And how many of them are there?"

"Two, we think, sir," said the stormtrooper breathlessly, jogging to keep up with Vader's long strides. "They're holed up in an abandoned house on the other side of the city. We think they know we're watching them, but for whatever reason they're not leaving, nor have they tried to fight."

Vader frowned a bit at that. It was unusual behavior for a Jedi. He and a few stormtroopers boarded a large transport speeder, and it zoomed off toward the site.

"Have you identified them?"

"We didn't get a good look at them, sir—not enough to make definitive identifications, although one of the troopers says the man resembles Kento Marek, who was briefly famous for leaving the Jedi Order prior to Order 66."

"Hmm," said Vader thoughtfully, as the speeder set down and he got off. "Interesting."

And even more interesting—he could feel the Jedi's presences. There were two of them all right, but there was something strange about them, as if they were resonating somehow. Vader tilted his head to the side, reaching out into the Force, trying to determine what was going on. The two Jedi were hiding—or, more accurately _shielding_—something. Yes, Vader thought, as he slipped through their shields. They were concealing a rather strong third presence. A Jedi youngling. No matter. He would take care of them all.

"Have stormtroopers surround the building on all sides and be ready to take down any escaping aircraft," Vader ordered. "Also ensure that there are no underground tunnels through which they can escape. I will go in alone. Wait for my signal to move in."

"Yes, sir!"

-Scene Break-

It _was_ Kento Marek, Vader ascertained, the minute the man took a swing at him. He ducked it, of course, and the duel began in earnest. The Jedi was a decent dueler, but, apparently, a bit rusty. He swung a little too wildly and seemed unable to focus the Force effectively.

It was puzzling to Vader, who had heard of Kento Marek's skill with a lighstaber, that the man seemed so…distracted…on most important duel of his life. As Vader easily blocked a sloppy blow, he glanced at the man's face, which was pinched in concentration. The Force tingled at him, not a warning, but a signal: something was off about this situation.

Vader stretched out his senses for the other Jedi and the youngling; they were both in the back of the building. Vader caught worry and anxiety resonating along the more mature bond.

Kento swung wildly at Vader, and Vader snapped his attention back to the duel, parrying back forcefully and swinging his lightsaber so quickly that it looked like a blur. In one swift move he cut of the man's hands and thrust him against the wall, where he fell limply.

An explosion shook the building, and Vader stumbled. "Commander!" he shouted into his comlink, concern shooting through him. Explosions were not a part of the plan. "What is going on out there?"

A series of explosions followed, as well as screams and howls of pain, and the Commander shouted back, "Some rogue Wookiees are attacking, sir! Commencing defense!"

Rockets and flares whizzed through the air, and the entire front of the building, where Vader had been standing only a minute ago, blew apart; he noted the irony that none of the debris had touched Kento Marek's body.

His Force-sense flared a warning, and, growling in frustration, Vader whirled around and ran into the back of the building. He heard glass breaking ahead, and he burst through a back door just in time to see a woman clutching a toddler trying to escape. Upon seeing Vader, she cried out in shock and dumped the child on the ground, igniting her lightsaber and baring her teeth in defiance, as all around her glass shattered, wood splintered, and the entire place started going to bits.

Vader grinned savagely. Perhaps _now_ he would have a challenge. The two regarded each other in silence for a moment, and then the woman launched herself at him, hurling down her saber in what would have been a deadly blow had Vader not parried it.

So the dance began, the two twirling and jumping around each other, each attack vicious and strong and quick, each strike like that of a snake, one right after the other. It continued for a long while, as the sounds of battle raged around them, until at last the woman made a mistake, and Vader shoved his lightsaber straight through her chest.

She gasped, her eyes flying open in shock, before her body slid off his lightsaber and crumpled onto the floor.

"A good fight," Vader murmured, turning his attention to the last of the trio. The toddler was a boy, he noted, and he regarded Vader with wide, startlingly green eyes. His resemblance to the woman was striking. _A Jedi_ _with a child, _he mused,_ How quaint_. Vader knelt down next to him. "Don't worry, child. You'll be with your mother again soon—"

Two arms wrapped around Vader's neck, two arms that ended in stubs, and _pulled. _Vader gasped, choking, his neck straining as the man behind him tried to get enough leverage to snap it. Vader reached out his hand to summon his lightsaber, black spots dotting his vision, and the wall behind him exploded into pieces.

The explosion forced Marek off his back, and Vader whipped around, shoving his lightsaber into the man's chest—a death blow, but one that would kill him slowly. He glanced up at the surrounding battle, and, to his confusion, noticed a break in his lines.

He glared down at Marek, fury roaring through him. Stupid Jedi! It was rather disappointing. "You could have gotten away!" he hissed, twisting the lightsaber so that the man cried out in pain. "Yet you came after me, on a suicide mission! _Why?_" He hated it when his prey suddenly acted stupid; it was demeaning to the kill. He twisted the lightsaber again, and Marek's face scrunched up in pain.

"S-some things," Marek rasped, convulsing, "Are worth dying for." His gaze wondered to the boy, who was curled up with his back to him on the floor. An expression of pain crossed his features. "You haven't lived," he rasped, "until you have had a ch-child." He shuddered in pain, "W-without the child, l-life m-means nothing." His gaze wondered to where his son lay so still, and the light faded from his eyes.

Vader sat back, regarding him, his thoughts in turmoil. He slowly turned his gaze to the toddler, but the boy was gone as well. The blow from the wall exploding had thrust him against the far wall and broken his neck. It would have been a quick death. Painless.

-Scene Break-

Vader fled the building, leaving the bodies lying on the floor. He ducked under the laserfire, dodged the tree branches flying past. He raced towards his command; the stomtroopers were pushing back the Wookiees, bursting into houses and chasing them out. He saw everything in great detail, as if the Force was slowing down time for him. There, racing out of a burning house, shielding her cubs with her own body, was a Wookiee mother. There, above, a blue and gray bird was desperately trying to shield its nest from the laserfire, covering its little chicks with its feathers. There, below, an Ilma rodent mother tucked its child up against the tree and crouched over it protectively.

Vader glanced over his shoulder and was afforded one more glimpse of the body of Kento Marek, lying next to his son, before the building burst into flames. What is it about children, Vader wondered, that made parents feel so strongly towards them?

He puzzled over this as his ship left Kashyyyk and as it traveled through hyperspace and as he descended down the entrance ramp of his ship into the hangar bay of his palace. From the cameras on his private balcony, he saw a mother laughing with her child, a man strapping his son into his speeder, and a daughter running to her father. He lay in bed that night, and he dreamed of his own mother. He recalled a memory he had never recalled before. His mother, smiling at him before tucking him in. "You are my light, Ani. The reason for my whole existence."

At midnight he woke from a restless and troubled sleep with Kento Marek's voice ringing in his ears: "You haven't lived until you have had a child."

He stumbled out of bed and into his bathroom. He shoved open his closet door and forced his way into his safe. He stood swaying over the uterine tank, confused and curious and hundred other things he didn't understand but seemed to be very important on so little sleep. He extended his arm, retracted it. No, he shouldn't do that. That was a bad idea. Then another image of his mother, smiling at him as she tucked him into bed, appeared before his mind's eye.

He pressed the green button.


	4. Chapter 4

I apologize to anybody reading this for taking so long to update. The good news is that I have finished the rest of the story and am posting it all! Yay!

Chapter Four

He regretted it the next morning and subsequently tried to stop the generation. That was when he discovered he couldn't stop the generation once it started—not without killing the child. He tried, of course, but he found once more he couldn't make himself snuff out the little parasite's Force presence.

_This is insane_, Vader thought, glaring at the tank out of the corner of his eye. He had moved it into his bedroom for safekeeping. _What was I thinking last night?_

He hadn't been thinking; that was the problem. _Isn't that how it normally happens? One moment of stupidity, and you're trapped for life?_ Except for him it had taken two moments of stupidity.

What _had_ he been thinking? He didn't even like children, much less have time for one. Just the thought of all the crying and screaming made him shudder. And what would the Emperor think? He took a deep swig of wine as that thought crossed his mind. He couldn't even begin to imagine his master's reaction. _Sorry, I was thinking of my mother and how much she loved me, and I decided I wanted that, too?_ That wasn't very Sithly of him. In fact, this entire situation wasn't Sithly at all. A true Dark Lord could crush an embryo, no problem.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Vader berated himself. _Now your two choices are to crush the thing or raise it. _Well, he had tried crushing it, and that hadn't turned out well. And he couldn't exactly turn it out onto the streets. A child with his power, unguarded, and easy prey to the Rebellion? Absolutely not. So that left raising it.

Frustration welled up inside him, then hatred. Hatred for himself, for pressing the button. Hatred at the embryo, for even existing. Hatred was good. Hatred was strong. Vader knew hatred, and he reveled at the heady rush of power it brought on. He hated this child, hated the situation it put him in. The hatred grew and grew and grew inside of him till Vader felt his eyes turn yellow and the sheets beneath his fingers sizzle from the arcs of electricity bouncing in his palm. Then he let the hatred go, breathing heavily. He slumped against his bed and closed his eyes. What he hated most of all was that he couldn't bring himself to kill the child.

AAAA—Page Break-AAAA

The next day he left for Thisspias to oversee the power transfer between one Imperial Governor and the next. He debated with himself about what to do with the kid, and, still a little resentful, decided against taking the tank with him, locking it instead once more in his closet. But he did begrudgingly program his comlink number into the thing, so the tank's computer could contact him in an emergency.

Thisspias was good for him. He was able to crush a little insurgency especially brutally, which served as a nice reminder of who, exactly, he was. He was no longer Anakin; he was certainly not a father. He was a Sith Lord.

Then after Thisspias was that prison revolt on Ord Vaug, and after that the illegal gambling ring he got to break up on Aleen, and after that there was that rebel activity on Tantra he got to obliterate. All in all, he had a very productive two months. And though Palpatine raged in Coruscant over the latest transmission from Purple Sky, Vader managed to remove himself enough from the situation to at least be content by the time the trip was over.

Still, when he returned to Coruscant, the problem of the baby reared its ugly head. The child's Force signature was even more prominent now, a constant tingling at the back of Vader's awareness. He shuddered to think of what it might be like when the child was fully grown.

Of course Jix noticed his foul mood.

"Get thrown around by a gundark?" he asked casually, leaning up against the wall. "Because, I'll be honest, Lord V, that's what you're acting like."

Vader shot him a glare so poisonous that Jix wisely shut up.

The problem of the boy, in and of itself, was not the only reason Vader was in such a foul mood. Rather, it seemed like the child's existence had sprung open a door in his mind, accessing memories Vader had no wish to remember anymore. He found himself thinking of his life from before, and it caused him no end of frustration and pain. He found himself often too anxious to sleep, and when he did finally drift off, his sleep was restless and plagued with nightmares, indistinct and shadowy. He could never remember what they were about, but they were always worse when he was on Coruscant.

Thus, it was unsurprising that he was more than happy to leave the following week, out on an extended sweep of the Outer Rim. He was very thorough on this trip, much more than he usually was; he didn't want to return to Coruscant. As it turned out, this was productive, as he found several rebel cells, over 40, that he might have otherwise missed. Vader made a mental note to go at a slower pace in the rest of his rebel sweeps.

As it was, it was five blessed months before Vader finally returned to Coruscant. This time the boy's presence in the Force was immediately noticeable and unmistakable, once Vader entered his quarters. He reminded himself the child was about eight months along now. He could theoretically be born any day.

But still, so close to the child's due date, Vader didn't know what he planned on doing with it. But that night, the nightmares resumed.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

When the parasite was at approximately 37 weeks of development, Vader fled his palace without his normal costume. He had done this before—escaped his palace as a normal person—but he had never told Jix about it. Jix would want to accompany him. And times that called for fleeing did not call for Jix.

When incognito, Vader went to a variety places simply as "Anakin"—sometimes public parks or museums, sometimes just the streets, and sometimes the lower levels. This time he fled to the area just above Coruscant's Undercity—the Ucsru Entertainment District.

It was a place of dazzling, flashing lights, with clubs, bars, playhouses, and low-budget theaters. Though it dazzled, the place was seedy enough, and with enough people steeped in Dark Side energy, to suit Vader's taste. For tonight, it was perfect.

He wandered around blindly for a little while, observing the town. On the corner of the street was a loud, flashy club with a line outside of it. Across from that in the alley he saw a couple embracing. A little further down the street, a line of prostitutes discretely sold their wares. Vader had no interest in that. In fact, he hadn't had much interest in sex after discovering he had sired a child doing it. Funny that. Vader mostly eyed a couple of bars with interest, but none of them held much appeal. At last he meandered down a side alley, where he saw a small, hole-in-the-wall bar. It had dim lighting and music loud enough to drown out most conversation but not so loud as to prevent thinking. Vader slunk in gratefully, grabbed a stool, and immediately began to drink.

This behavior was getting more and more common, he realized. Whenever he was on Coruscant, or in Xizor's presence, he felt the urge to drink. And not just have a light glass of champagne—seriously drink. It was both a good and bad thing that being so steeped in the Dark Side prevented him from getting really drunk; no matter how much he drank, at most he'd get tipsy for maybe one or two standard minutes. Otherwise he would have gotten into a lot of trouble before now. Sometimes, however, he admitted to himself, he wished drinking was a little more effective. He wanted the relief.

He finished his first drink and nodded for another. "Phibian," he confirmed, when the bartender started to ask.

The Mon Calamari grinned and slid another glass across the bar. "Phibian," he remarked, "the soldier's drink."

Vader smirked. "I've seen some battles in my day."

"Stormtrooper?"

Vader snorted into his glass. "No. But there are other types of soldiers."

And most Imperial citizens had best hope they never meet one on duty. The Mon Calamari must have known this, for all he said was, "Ah" noncommittally, and afterwards left Vader alone.

A couple of years ago, thought Vader, gazing at the opposing wall without really seeing it, no one would have even asked that question. All soldiers were clones. He scowled. Those were the good days. Now his master was infusing ordinary men into the army, men who hadn't the training or expertise the old clones had had. They were only a little better than droids.

He had been staring at the opposing wall for he didn't know how long, taking occasional sips of his drink, making a mental checklist of all the non-clone recruits aboard the Exactor, as well as a pros and cons list of all their skills, deciding which ones he wanted to execute, etcetera, when he heard a funny little chirrupy sound from beside him.

Vader slowly tore his gaze away from the wall and glanced down. Sitting one stool over, and barely large enough to see over the edge of the counter, was a Mriss. Vader felt a flicker of surprise. Of all the places he would have thought he might run into a Mriss, it wouldn't have been in a bar.

They were a funny little species, the Mriss. Avian, about as tall as a human was wide, covered in grey or brown feathers, and with vestigial wings on their backs. This one looked like it was middle-aged, if the mottled white coloring around its eyes was any indication. And, like the rest of its species, it looked very bookish. Mriss were known for being the scholarly type.

The Mriss caught Vader looking at him, and let out that sound again, which Vader guessed might be the Mriss equivalent of a sigh.

"I don't normally go into bars," it said, in response to Vader's unasked question. "It has simply been a very long week."

Vader could understand _that_ feeling. Still, he got the impression that this little Mriss wanted to talk. Since the opportunity to talk to a Mriss outside of a lecture hall didn't come around very often, and since Vader wanted to take his mind off the kid, he decided to indulge him.

"How so?" Vader finally enquired.

The Mriss released a very long, annoyed-sounding chirrup. "I'm a professor," he started.—_No surprise there_, thought Vader.—"at the University of Coruscant. I have been working there for over 25 years as a professor of human psychology."

_I'm talking to a psychologist_, thought Vader, _the irony_. He could only imagine Jix's expression.

"I have many credentials and accolades to prove that I am more than capable of teaching, nor have I ever spoken out about anything political. However, ever since the crackdown of the political departments on my home planet—" He broke off and gazed at Vader worriedly. "Are you aware of what happened on Mrisst?"

"Yes."

Not only was Vader aware of it, but he had authorized it. Some of the political science departments at the many Mriss universities had had some very radical ideas about the Empire. Local governors had been worried about them stirring up rebellion. Vader had permitted the ensuing crackdown.

"Well, ever since the crackdown, my classes have been closely monitored by Imperial University scouts, and there's this one in particular, Etson, who loathes me—he called me a stupid little bird after he overheard me telling my colleague that I thought he suffered from Short Man's Syndrome—"

Vader snorted with laughter.

"—and he's just been waiting for the chance to punish me, so I've been very careful. But earlier this week, I was teaching about human temperament, and I said that humans were simply more passionate and independent than other species—I _know_ this is what triggered it—and just this morning I received notice that they were shutting down my classes and putting me under official Imperial investigation for subversion." His little wings flapped in frustration. "I couldn't help but say that humans are more independent than other species!" he exclaimed in aggravation, staring up at Vader. "Because it's _true!_ Look at humans compared to say, Geonosians, or Togruta, which are two species that are very group-minded. Humans are simply not like that. That's all I meant to say!" He grabbed his tiny glass and gulped down a few mouthfuls, shuddering.

To Vader it sounded like a prime example of unnecessary Imperial prerogative. He had seen it before: higher-ranking Imperials who were just waiting for a chance to punish someone for an inconsequential slip-up. Vader particularly loathed this practice; it was a disease upon the government, these petty punishments. They eliminated perfectly good Imperial workers and wasted resources.

"What's his name again?" asked Vader. If one day he was bored, he might need to get rid of this pest.

"Julius Etson," snapped the Mriss, dislike coating his voice.

Now that Vader thought of it, the name seemed vaguely familiar. Maybe Vader had met him at one of the Emperor's larger events? Slowly, a somewhat fuzzy image formed in Vader's mind. "Short?" he asked suddenly. "Fat, with brown hair?"

"Yes," said the Mriss slowly, looking at him curiously. "You know him?"

"Know of him," corrected Vader. Looking down at his glass, he muttered, "I spend more time around bureaucrats than I would like."

The Mriss made a funny little snorting sound. "If you know one, you know too many."

Vader let out a short bark of laughter. He was starting to like this little guy. "I couldn't describe it better," he agreed, amused.

The Mriss glanced at him. "Is that what brings you down here today? Bureaucrats?"

Vader's mood dipped. "I wish," he muttered darkly, glaring at his glass, "Bureaucrats are easier to deal with." He could kill _them_.

"Family problems, then," surmised the Mriss. When Vader glanced at him surprise, he smiled kindly. "I am an expert in human psychology, my friend."

_My friend?_ Vader repeated to himself. Wouldn't the creature be surprised to know who he was calling _that? _

"Tell me," the Mriss implored. He scooted one seat closer. "You listened to my troubles. Let me listen to yours. It is what I do, after all."

"I thought you were a teacher," said Vader.

The Mriss chirruped. Vader suspected it was laughing. "The best teachers," it said, "are good listeners."

Vader detested the idea of talking to a psychologist, and almost said so, but, glancing down at the Mriss's big, wise eyes, he stopped himself before he could say the words. He was being stupid. He always asked advice from experts about the lay of a land before conquering a territory. And since he knew nothing about parenting, why would he pass up the chance for free, anonymous advice?

_Because it's your personal life_, he answered himself. _You are supposed to be the expert_. He frowned. But that wasn't true at all. He didn't have a personal life. At least, that used to be the case.

His internal struggle must have showed on his face, for the Mriss prodded him, gently. "It is always," it said, "better to talk about it."

_You are being so stupid today_, Vader told himself as he reluctantly opened his mouth. "I am going to be…" he hesitated, because he had never said it aloud before, "…a father. Soon. I think." He added the last part because he still hadn't decided what to do with the kid. The simplest thing would be to kill it as soon as he got home.

The Mriss's wings fluttered as it turned to look up at him with big eyes. "I see," it said in a tone of sudden understanding. It fluttered its wings again. "Well, normally I would say congratulations, but I suspect that might not be the sentiment you want to hear." It gazed at Vader thoughtfully. "You do not want to be a father?"

Absolutely not! "I…" started Vader. Then he shook his head. "No. But I—" He didn't know how to explain what had happened. "I chose," he said eventually, "in a moment of stupidity to keep the child."

"Hmm." The Mriss fluttered its wings. "The mother—she does not want it?"

"No."

"Hmm. Boy, or girl?"

"Boy."

"Hmm." The Mriss kept its gaze on Vader's face. Vader took a long swallow from his drink, a little uncomfortable with the stare. "Do you think he will be like you, your son?"

Vader hadn't considered it. He had tried not to think of the child at all. "I don't know," he said eventually. He thought about it for a moment. "I hope not."

"_Hmm_." That particular 'hmm' sounded significant, as if the Mriss had found that statement interesting. "Then you hope he will be like his mother?"

Vader hardly knew the mother. But what he did know, he didn't like. "No," he said firmly.

"Hmm," said the Mriss again, thoughtfully. He peered up at Vader closely. "Why did you choose to keep him, then? It _was_ your choice."

Vader shook his head. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking."

"No," said the Mriss firmly. "You were thinking—something. But maybe, looking back on it, you don't agree with it, or think it was stupid reasoning. But you were thinking something when you made that choice."

Vader lowered his eyes. He had been insane that night, when he pushed that button. His reasoning had been crazy, nuts. He just shook his head.

The Mriss observed him for moment with his wise eyes, then asked, curious, "Why do you not want the child?"

Vader stared at him incredulously. Why did most working men who did not want children not want children?

"I don't have _time _for a child," he said in exasperation, as though it should be obvious. "My career takes me from Coruscant for weeks or months on end. And when I am here, I am still busy. And I hate children—they cry, whine, scream, and demand all your time." Put that way, children seemed very similar to politicians.

The Mriss took a sip of his drink. "And all these reasons for not having a child, they are more important than, more valid than, somehow outweigh, the crazy reason you had for first wanting one?"

_Yes_, Vader wanted to reply. But he didn't. He recalled the strange feeling he had had when he pressed that button, thinking of his mother's face, feeling an echo of his mother's Force signature. He didn't know what that feeling was. Or perhaps he had been feeling many things at the same time. Whatever the case, it had been an intense moment, and he couldn't say for sure, honestly, that what he thought now was more important than what he had felt then. Whatever it was.

"I won't make a good father," he said at last, almost desperately.

The Mriss chirruped in amusement. "That is a common sentiment, I believe, among human men. They fear they won't make good fathers."

Vader shook his head. "It's not a _fear_. It's a fact. I don't want to be a father. I resent the child for even existing. How could I possibly be a good parent to someone I dislike?"

The Mriss considered him seriously. "If you don't like your child," it said at last, "you must love him."

Love? _Him?_ "Impossible." Love led to mercy, that detested weakness that allowed the frail and infirm to survive in a world and order that ought to eliminate them. Mercy was a disease upon the natural order of the galaxy, much like corruption upon the government. Vader didn't think the professor would understand this, so instead he said, "I have no love in me to give."

The Mriss looked at him in surprise. "Not even to yourself?"

"No," said Vader, staring straight at the opposing wall, his hand gripping tightly onto his glass. "I am hollow."

There was a brief silence in which Vader felt the Mriss's eyes on him. At last he hooted sadly, "You loathe yourself."

Vader almost flinched, but acknowledged the truth of it. It was not a bad thing for a Sith to loathe himself. "There is nothing in me worth liking, much less loving."

The Mriss observed him for a long time in silence. Vader half-expected him to leave.

"That," said the Mriss slowly, "is not true."

_Not true?_ Vader laughed at the absurdity of it. If only the little bird knew who he was talking to! Then he would know there was nothing good in him. Vader shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm afraid I do," said the Mriss, gently, looking at Vader with something akin to compassion.

Vader scoffed. "Did you not hear me?" he snapped. "I don't feel _anything._"

The Mriss looked at him sadly, then turned to stare at his drink, which was roughly eye-level. At last he spoke. "When people say," he said clearly and slowly, "that they feel nothing, of course what a psychologist must first consider is that the person is a psychopath. You are not, though something makes you believe that you are. How do I know that?" he asked rhetorically. "It's because you didn't say, at first, 'I feel nothing.' Instead you said, 'I have no love in me to give.' You know what love is. You have felt it before. You are capable of feeling it again."

Vader shook his head. "That part of me is dead."

The Mriss shook his head. "The heart," it said, "never dies."

He regarded Vader for a moment, then smiled kindly and hopped off his stool. "Good luck and goodbye, my friend. I will pray to the god of the sky that you find love in this child. May he be your light."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Vader had started the night the boy was born by attending one of the Emperor's functions. It wasn't necessarily that he wanted to attend, but the invitation hadn't been a request. He wasn't even sure what this particular function was celebrating. Some committee? A resolution of some sort? Perhaps the Emperor had found a lead on Purple Sky?—no, that wasn't it. Vader would have heard.

He stood, like he normally did, in the corner of the room, arms crossed against his chest, hoping his terrifying visage would frighten away most of the courtiers. For the most part he was successful, though there were always a few who couldn't be scared away. Bail Organa was one such politician.

And voilà, thought Vader, here he comes now.

Indeed, Bail Organa was determinedly weaving his way through the crowd towardsVader. This had become a bit of a habit of his, Vader had noticed. The man seemed to make it a priority to speak with him every time he saw him. Why he felt compelled to do this, Vader couldn't even begin to imagine. Nevertheless, Vader had come to expect it.

"Lord Vader," said Organa cordially. "So nice to see you this evening."

It was such a pity Organa couldn't see Vader raising his eyebrows. It might have made him blush. "I'm sure it is, Senator," he said instead, with just enough sarcasm to let him know just how pleased he thought Organa was.

To his credit, Organa was able to move past the jibe without stuttering, as was the habit of so many politicians.

"I heard about your campaign in the Outer Rim," he said, glancing around to make sure the many people milling around weren't eavesdropping. "It was…impressively thorough."

Vader's lips curled upward. He greatly suspected Organa was involved in the Rebellion. "I am sure you were…most pleased…to hear of the Empire's success," he all but purred.

Organa glanced at him sharply. "Indeed," he said tightly. "Nothing is more important to me."

Vader had a very hard time suppressing his laughter. "I don't doubt it, Senator."

He glanced around at the crowd. Like in most of the Emperor's functions, the room was a dazzling array of polished silver goblets, glittering jewels, and iridescent lights, the picture of elegance. At least for right now. Later on, when the guests had had a few drunks, undoubtedly someone would get drunk enough to take a swing at his rival, and a regular brawl would occur on the dance floor. Most of the time the Emperor allowed it for entertainment purposes. It was the only saving grace of these functions: that Vader had the chance to see politicians pummel each other.

Organa lingered, even after a few minutes of silence, as if he wanted to say something else, so Vader opted for a change of topic.

"I heard you recently adopted a child," he said. This was always unbelievable to him—that someone would willingly take on the burden of a child that was not their own. It reaffirmed Vader's opinion that Organa was slightly insane. Or stupid. He couldn't decide.

"Yes," said Organa cautiously, "about three months ago."

"Boy, or girl?" Vader needed a mental picture to go along with the name he was sure to hate.

"A little girl," said Organa, looking both cautious and curious at the change in topic, "Her name is Winter."

What a stupid name. "It must be a lot of work," commented Vader, his eyes roving to the crowd again.

"It is," Organa agreed readily. "But a joy as well."

Vader marveled at how easily parents could trick themselves. It was indeed a strange twist of nature that mammalian sentients routinely found such whiney, crying, demanding, annoying creatures a delight. He really hated to say anything good about the Neimodians—they were such a revolting species—but they had really gotten it right as far as childcare was concerned. Birth the children, then stick them in an environment where they had to fight for food. Whoever is the strongest survives. If the Sith, Vader thought, routinely had children, that would be how they would raise them. But _he_ couldn't do that; he was definitely only having one.

A bell rang somewhere, and as one the guests turned to the podium, where a short man in a lurid yellow robe stood smiling a dazzling smile at his audience. Vader knew it must be Senator Kraukus of the Coruscant Sector, though he had never seen the man before.

"Welcome, Beloved Guests!" he exclaimed, beaming and spreading his arms benevolently. Vader instantly loathed him. He had no doubt the man was about to launch into some maudlin speech. "It is with great pleasure that I see you here at the Celebration of the Ebergo Resolution, which will catapult our beloved, cherished Empire—"

Vader's comlink vibrated, and relief swept through him. _Thank the Force I have an excuse to get out of this. _He glanced down at his wrist, and his relief evaporated. The number was the one assigned to the uterine tank. Nothing good could come out of this. His stomach twisted.

He glanced up. Organa was staring at him curiously. "I will have to take this," he said curtly.

"Of course—" Organa started, looking curious, but Vader had already swept away, striding out of the room, ignoring the astonished looks of the guests and the rather insulted one of the Coruscanti Senator. Of all the people here, he was the only one who didn't need to fear the wrath of the slighted Senator Kraukus.

Vader strode down the hallway. Several stormtroopers snapped to attention as he passed, but he paid them no mind. Every muscle in his body had tensed. His eyes kept on flicking back to his comlink, where the tank's number glowed in pale green letters. He didn't know what he was thinking; he was just nervous. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

When he reached the hangar bay, he slid into his speeder to ensure his privacy. Once he had slammed the doors shut behind him, he pressed the 'Accept Message' button on his comlink.

"Lord Vader," said the cool voice of the tank's computer. "Developmental scans indicate the infant is ready for child-birth. Pre-birthing procedures have begun. Birthing procedure to begin at"—It paused, as if computing.—"2314. Though it is not necessary, please note that it is recommended for a doctor or medical droid to be present at birth. If this is not available, please read the included information file for typical post-birth care—"

Vader slammed shut his comlink, retrieved his keys, and started up his speeder, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. Absolute dread—mixed with some other emotion he couldn't name, though it was causing a strange jittery feeling—was filling him, and he knew he absolutely needed to be back at his palace. He shot backwards out of the hangar and up into the drizzling Coruscanti sky.

He was at his palace in less than a minute, and he had never seen his techs jump so badly as when he bolted into his hangar bay and descended down the ladder the next second, only pausing to issue a swift, "Make sure it's refueled!" before racing to the turbolift.

Once inside, he punched a button on his comlink. "Lieutenant Frison!" he barked to his lieutenant on duty.

He could practically hear the man jump on the other end. "Yes, Sir?"

"Have a medical droid sent to my quarters. Immediately!"

"Yes, Lord Vader!"

The turbolift doors dinged open, and Vader strode brusquely down his hallway, going through the extensive procedures to get into his private quarters before rushing to his closet, his heart beating irrationally fast in his chest. He had almost made it there when a chime went through the rooms, indicating the arrival of the droid. Vader growled and did an about-face, allowing the droid in.

"What seems to be the problem, sir?" it asked politely. "I am programmed to resolve—"

"Shut up!" snapped Vader, whirling around and stalking back to his bathroom. He couldn't account for the way his hands were trembling. He had sat in on open-brain surgery before. The prospect of watching a box spit out a kid shouldn't be causing this amount of nerves. "I will require your assistance with a uterine tank delivery."

"Situation processed, sir," said the droid, following Vader through his expansive bathroom and into his closet.

Vader swung back the far set of shelves and quickly placed his hand on the security console, which immediately processed the DNA found on his skin cells. The door swung inward, and Vader turned on the lights before stalking to the very far end of the safe. There, still sitting next to the protocol droid, was the uterine tank. It was about the size of a medium-sized trunk, and currently all its lights were flashing. It emitted a distinct, ominous humming sound.

Vader used the Force to drag it to the middle of the room and motioned to the medical droid. "Tell me what's happening!"

The droid took a moment to analyze the tank. "Pre-birthing procedure is almost complete, sir," it said. "The tank will need to be taken to a sterile environment, where one side will be removed."

Vader shook his head. He wasn't about to carry a uterine tank down to his medical center, especially when he still hadn't decided for sure what to do with the kid. He was half-hoping that the first time he heard the baby cry, he'd have the strength to crush it. "The trunk," he said firmly, "is staying here."

"I recommend against that, sir—"

"I don't care!" Vader snapped. Frustration, anger, and fear welled up in him. The Dark Side hung thickly in the little room. "It's staying here!"

The droid's lights blinked, as if the command was difficult to process. "Very well, sir," it finally said. "Allow me to sterilize the area, then."

It leaned down and pulled from an interior compartment a long, white sheet, which it laid out on the floor, followed by a sterilizing mist it sprayed into the air. Vader watched him anxiously, impatiently, feeling jittery.

"The uterine tank will need to be placed on the sheet, sir," the droid informed him politely.

Vader waved his hand irritably, and the tank scooted forward onto the sheet. A second after it had settled, three lights on its side starting blinking madly, and suddenly one of the small walls simply popped off. The droid removed it from the sheet and leaned down next to the tank. Vader did so as well, his heart suddenly thumping loudly in his chest. Sweat coated his palms, and he breathed shallowly.

Vader couldn't see much inside the tank, but he did see, under a slew of monitoring wires, a fleshy, oblong thing with a very narrow hole at the end, which he supposed was the artificial uterus. It looked disgusting. Vader eyed it with distaste.

The entire tank glowed green, and the medical droid turned to Vader. "Birthing procedure is about to begin."

Vader watched, in disgusted fascination, as the tank whirred to life, and the fleshy thing _pulsed_. A sharp pang of fear resounded through the Force. Vader was momentarily startled. It hadn't come from him, so who had it—

His eyes fell on the tank, and he sucked in a deep breath. _The baby_ was afraid. And suddenly, Vader was too.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The uterus pulsed rhythmically for over an hour, and with each pulse the baby's terror notched up a level, so much so that that was practically all Vader could feel after a while: his son's terror echoing in the back of his mind. Vader was terrified too.

Tentatively, afraid to, he brushed his child's mind. It was unfocused and random and somewhat wild, unlike any mind Vader had ever felt. But upon feeling his father's presence, a sense of wonder and curiosity filled the child, and the terror in the room lessened slightly. Vader was amazed, and a funny, warm feeling welled up in him.

Then another pulse—or contraction—hit, and the child's anxiety flared.

_It's okay_, Vader thought, instinctively sending a soothing mental tendril to the baby, _don't be afraid_. It instinctively clutched onto the tendril, as if it was second nature to him. Despite being somewhat frustrated with it, Vader was also fascinated by this instant connection, this Force-bond already forming between them, even as they barely knew each other's minds.

"Sir, the baby is about to emerge," said the droid beside him, grounding Vader back to reality. He glanced down at the tank, and surprise flew through him as he saw that the previously tiny hole had expanded several inches, and beyond it he could see a wisp of dark blond hair.

_By the Force_, thought Vader suddenly, _this is really happening_. He felt his stomach leap to his throat.

"Sir, it is best if human hands catch the child."

_What?_ He didn't move.

"Sir," the droid sounded nervous. "It is best if you catch him so I can ensure he is all right—"

The uterus pulsed again.

"Sir!" the droid sounded panicked.

In his sudden panic, Vader didn't understand what the droid was asking him to do, but instinct made him shoot his hands forward just in time to catch the head of the baby as it smoothly slid out of the tank.

The babe was red and slimy, with some strange gunk stuck all over its body that smelled nauseating. Vader was revolted. The boy writhed uncomfortably as the droid leaned over him, then burst into ear-splitting squeals.

"I will take it from here, sir," said the droid quickly, seeing Vader's expression and scooping up the bawling child in his arms. Vader was glad to let it go. The droid zoomed out of the bathroom, and a second later Vader heard the sound of water running, the babe still bawling pathetically.

Vader stood slowly, feeling a bit dazed. His eyes swept slowly over the safe. Apart from the gunk on the floor, the room had remained amazingly pristine. There, in the corner, was Threepio, stolen from the Jawas that snatched him from the Lars farm. There, on the shelf, was his racing flag. There, against the wall, was a holoalbum of his mother's wedding to Cliegg, stolen years later from what remained of the farm.

It filled Vader with a strange, fateful feeling, knowing that the boy was born in this room of all places.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Every morning for the next two weeks, Vader told himself he would kill the boy by the end of the day. _Today is the day_, he would think, _the boy's last day_. Then he would make sure the medical droid was taking care of the child before going about his daily business, his thoughts always wondering to the tiny, pathetic life form messing up his closet and using his old shirts as diapers.

For Vader hadn't prepared at all for the birth of a child. He had no bedroom, no diapers, no clothes, no blankets, and no pacifier. The tank came with some pre-processed bio-milk designed especially for babies, enough to last a month, and the droid had been dishing it out. If the tank hadn't come with that, it was likely the kid would have starved. As it was, it was currently becoming very familiar with the floor of his closet, where it slept and cried and pooped in a small dresser-drawer.

Several times a day, Vader would go into the closet, ignore the droid who plead with him to give the child proper care, pick the kid up, stare at its scrunched-up, miserable-looking face, and think, _I should get rid of it. Why am I keeping it here?_ But no matter how many times he heard it cry, no matter how many times it woke him up at night, no matter that its bodily functions had practically depleted his clothes supply, Vader found himself unwilling to snuff out the little parasite's life, despite how easy it would be.

Exactly two weeks, two days, and 10 hours after the boy's birth, Vader realized he was going to keep him. It was a simple enough realization to come to. Vader suddenly simply understood that had he been planning on killing the boy, he would have done it the second Jix had first brought him the tank.

Vader entered the closet that day feeling much calmer than he had for some time. The sense of distress that hung over him every time he entered the room was now gone; now he knew what he was going to do. He almost wanted to laugh.

Before he could, however, the medical droid zoomed up to him and said, in a rather accusatory way, "Sir, I have run out of cloth to sanitize the infant, and he currently requires sanitation."

It took Vader a moment to realize the droid had simply said it had run out of cloth for diapers. Vader glanced around the room in surprise, and, sure enough, every piece of clothing he owned, with the exception of his three costumes, enclosed in a glass case, was gone. For a second he was a bit of a loss at what to do—was he going to need to get one of his pillowcases?—but then an idea hit him, and a wicked smile spread across his face.

"I will provide you with some," he told the droid, almost giddy, before doing an about-face and striding out of the bathroom. He couldn't think of a more appropriate use for this little swath of cloth.

He strode into one of his private sitting rooms, one of the ones he rarely used, and stopped in front of a glass display on the wall. Inside it were several varying, incredibly expensive gifts, given to him by various politicians and businessmen. The only thing they all had in common was that each came from someone Vader especially loathed. He kept them on display so he could stare at them and imagine killing the benefactors with them.

In the center of the case was a roll of Jemin cloth from Xizor. It was the rarest material in the Galaxy, and the roll must have cost Xizor a small fortune. Vader had had it looked over with a fine-toothed comb to make sure Xizor hadn't hidden any surprises in it, but it had been perfectly safe. Vader often imagined strangling the Falleen with it, but somehow, using it as a diaper for his son seemed so much better.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Vader contacted the Emperor before he did anything else. It went without saying that his master's cooperation was absolutely essential to the child's survival. Should the man fail to give his permission for Vader to keep the child, any other plans Vader made would be for naught. Vader didn't know what he'd do should his master order him to kill the boy, so he resolved to simply orchestrate an excuse that made that possibility unlikely.

"You what?" asked the Emperor incredulously, after Vader had given his explanation. The man's shock was so intense Vader could feel it a palace over.

"I've recently had a child, my master," Vader repeated, bowing his head low. It would not do to antagonize the man now. It was time to be as obsequious as possible. "I did not inform you because I meant to destroy it. However, I have since changed my mind, and I request your permission to raise it."

The Emperor looked baffled. "Raise it?" he repeated disbelievingly. "Why would you ever wish to raise a child, Lord Vader?"

_I don't_, thought Vader, _I just can't kill it_. But there was no way he was about to confess that to his master.

Instead he said, "He could be of great value to the Empire, Master, when is older."

"You wish to train him?" the Emperor asked incredulously.

Vader had no doubts as to why the Emperor would be suspicious about _that_.

"Only with your permission, my master," he said swiftly, "and only when he is older."

The Emperor scoffed. Whether it was at Vader's answer or explanation remained unclear. "Am I to believe this is the only reason you wish to raise him, Lord Vader? It seems like such a great personal burden to you when there are easier, less-personal ways to serve me. I wasn't aware your devotion to me was so strong." The tiniest hint of sarcasm laced his lattermost statement.

This was it: the time for 'truth.' Vader only hoped the Emperor would accept his excuse. "I…" he tried to sound suitably hesitant. "I do not wish to be like…my officers, my master." He bowed his head even lower.

The Emperor arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"No," Vader hissed, glaring at the ground. He hoped he sounded suitably revolted. "You know I have always despised most of the officers in the Navy for their weakness, their cowardice, and _their failure to take responsibility_. I will not allow within myself the same, pathetic traits I see in them. I have never before shirked a responsibility, however loathsome, and I will not shirk this one." Determination laced his voice.

The Emperor narrowed his eyes. "And what about your responsibility to the Empire?" he demanded sharply.

"The boy will not interfere."

The Emperor fell silent for a long time, his yellow eyes staring at his apprentice calculatingly. After a few moments, Vader felt his master brush the edge of his consciousness. It was a subtle touch, and Vader was sure the Emperor didn't know he could feel it. Vader opened up a small part of his consciousness for his master to see, shoved his darkness and loathing along the cold, mental bond. Give the man the proof he was seeking.

"Very well," said the Emperor at last. "I will grant this, although reluctantly. But be warned, Lord Vader," he practically growled, "that should the boy interfere with your duties, he will be eliminated. Immediately."

Vader bowed low. "Understood, my master. Thank you, my master."

He cut the link before the man could change his mind.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The expression on Jix's face was almost worth everything.

Vader had summoned him, without explanation, to his private quarters some thirty minutes after his conversation with the Emperor. Jix had bounded into the room, perfectly cheery—"Hey, Lord V! What's up?"—until he had glanced behind Vader to see a baby snoozing on the bedcovers.

The color had drained from his face, his mouth had dropped open, and his eyes had bugged out; it looked like he was watching the world end in a particularly surprising manner. He made an odd rasping sound, as if trying to speak but unable to. At last he gasped out, "_What_ is _that?_"

"My kid," said Vader pleasantly.

"_What?_" Jix sounded faint.

"Don't you remember?" Vader tsked disappointedly. "You did, after all, bring him to me. About two years ago, if I recall correctly."

"B-but, b-but," Jix stammered. "I thought you had—didn't you—I expected—"

"Me to kill him?" Vader guessed, his eyes boring into Jix's. "Yes, I probably should have. But I didn't. And now, here he is."

"Here he is," Jix repeated faintly, turning away and sweeping his hands through his hair. "'Here he is'—like it's nothing!" he muttered to himself. "No problem, I've got a kid—Sithspawn, he has a _kid!_ This is—"

"_Jix._" Vader's voice was steely.

Jix turned to him. "Yeah?" He still sounded rather weak.

"Save the hysterics for later," Vader said pointedly, "I require your security-oriented brain for now."

"Right," said Jix breathlessly, his eyes once more darting to the kid. It had blonde hair like Vader's. "Security. Got it." He turned his gaze to Vader.

"I will require," said Vader, "that the entire Palace be outfitted to deal with its newest inhabitant."

Jix nodded quickly. He could do that. He _could_ do that. He glanced once more at the boy. He was snoozing so peacefully, only the very gentle rise of his stomach indicated he was alive.

So many questions rushed through Jix's head, and at last he blurted out, "What's his name?"

Vader arched an eyebrow, then glanced back at the child. "I'm not sure," he said thoughtfully, as though the idea of naming the boy had just now occurred to him. Knowing Vader, this was a distinct possibility. "I will have to think about it."

"What?" Jix managed to crack a weak joke. "You don't want to name him Wrenga?" He sounded hurt.

Vader gave him a level look. "If something is so bad even you won't use it, you know it's no good."

"Touché."

"I will think of something," said Vader. "In the meantime, inform the necessary members of my staff of this development; they will need to buy the equipment necessary to raise a child."

"Will do, sir," said Jix a little sarcastically. He wheeled around, intending to march out the door, when he caught one more glance of the child. He stopped dead, and asked, in utter astonishment, "That diaper—is that the cloth Xizor gave you?"

Vader didn't confirm anything, but his lips curved up into a little smirk.

Jix burst into laughter. "By the Emperor's black heart," he cackled, "Most of the time I hate you, Lord V, but sometimes I just love you!"

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

If Jix loved the expression on Vader's face when he said that, he loved even more the expression on Lieutenant Maris's face when he told him he needed to make preparations for a baby.

"B-buh _what?_" Maris stuttered, staring at Jix comprehendingly.

Jix almost felt sorry for the man. Being the head of Vader's personal assistants had to be a bad enough job as it was, but here Vader was dumping this on him.

"Lord Vader just recently became a father," he explained, relishing his flabbergasted expression. "Therefore it will be necessary for you to make preparations for a baby. I am sure this includes buying diapers, clothes, etcetera, and setting up a nursery."

Maris looked bewildered. "But, he has a kid—he's—I mean—he—well—he's keeping it? I mean, I would have thought—had he had a kid—he would—well—I wouldn't have expected him to—he's _keeping it?_"

"Yes," said Jix mildly, enjoying the man's stunned look. "And since he is, you will need to gather the required things."

"O-okay," the man said shakily. He still looked bewildered. "H-how l-long do I have…until the baby arrives?" he added the last part rather weakly.

"Not long," said Jix pleasantly. "The baby is already here."

"_Here?_" Maris squawked. He looked as if he had been hit over the head. "By the Core," he breathed, his eyes wide, "I better get moving."

"Probably a good idea," Jix confirmed.

The man gazed around dazedly for a minute, stumbled back a few feet, and whirled on his heel, flat-out running down the corridor to the lift. As he ran, he jabbed a button on his comlink. Speaking to another aide, he exclaimed, "You're not going to believe this!"

Within ten minutes it seemed like everyone in Vader's upper tier of servants knew about the child, and all were panicked about it. For a good hour no one seemed to know what to do—

"What does a baby need?" "I don't know. Do you know what a baby needs?"—but at last they came to the brilliant conclusion that the child would, in fact, need a bedroom, and they proceeded to spend a good thirty minutes bickering over which room to choose, until finally picking one two doors down from the entrance to Vader's suite.

It took them another twenty minutes to come up with the brilliant idea of finding a servant who had a child in order to figure out what the child would need. It took a while, but they found one—some technician in the hangar bay. He quickly took charge of the situation, and about two hours after Jix had first told Maris about the boy, Vader's servants were finally figuring out what to do about it.

Seeing that progress was finally going to be made, Jix left them alone and meandered back to Vader's private quarters.

What he saw upon his return was even stranger than what he had seen that morning—Vader holding a baby. Of course, Vader wasn't holding his son the way parents normally hold their children—that is, cradled in their arms. Rather, he had one hand supporting the child's bottom, and the other braced carefully around its neck. He held the boy a good distance away from him, examining him critically.

"Inspections even on your own family members?" Jix asked, shaking his head. "Lord V, you have been in the military too long."

Vader ignored this. "He is content," he said, sounding puzzled. "The boy. When I hold him." He tilted his head to the side and continued to examine the baby, which did somehow manage to have a content expression on its face.

"Well," said Jix sadly. "You already know one of your son's bad traits. He has terrible judgment."

This time Vader did look at him. He looked annoyed. "My Force presence is comforting to him," he explained. "I made the mistake of soothing him during childbirth. He has since instinctively latched on to it."

"Your child is comforted in your presence," remarked Jix dryly. "That must be very annoying. I sympathize."

Vader gave him a cautious look.

"I believe," Jix continued, "it is normal to hold your baby a bit closer."

Vader gave Jix a warning look, as if to say, _don't even think of trying to give me parenting advice_. He did, however, pull the baby a little closer. It still wasn't touching the main part of his body, but it might be able to feel his body heat.

"I've decided on a name," said Vader abruptly, drawing Jix's eyes from the baby up to the man's face.

"Oh?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "And what would that be? Darth Vader Jr.? Palpatine II?"

Vader glared.

"Okay, fine!" Jix held up his hands acquiescently. "What is it?"

"It's _Kor_," Vader bit out.

"Core?" Jix asked confusedly. "As in, the Core?"

Vader looked annoyed. "Kor. K-O-R. Krill-Osk-Resh."

It was an unusual name. Jix wasn't sure what he would have imagined Vader naming his child, but it wasn't that. "Why?"

Vader looked down at his son. "It is strong." He paused. "Many strong things start with Kor. _Korriban_," he said, "the homeworld of the Sith. Or _Korad_, the planet with the gravitational pull so strong it has brought down fleets of ships. Or the _Koradin_ sector, home to some of the most dangerous predators in the Galaxy. Or _Korasa,_ the frozen moon so inhospitable that even with all their advanced technology, the Kaminoans were driven from it. Or _Koratas_, the moon of durasteel. Or the _Kordans_, the primitives that decimated the ranks of the Mandalorian warriors. Kor. It means 'Sandstorm' in Tusken, 'Fire' in Jawaese, 'Death' in Mando'a, 'Lightning' in Durese, and 'Hurricane' in Hapan."

When put that way, it was unsurprising Vader was so partial to the name. It had so many terrible and terrifying connotations. Jix would have never given it to a child.

He pursed his lips. "And the rest of his name?"

"His middle name is Sidrona."

Not so unusual of a middle name, but Vader seemed to be avoiding the obvious question. Jix arched an eyebrow. "And…his last name?"

Jix practically felt Vader's mood dip. In fact, the baby—Kor—screwed up his face and started whimpering.

"It's Skywalker," Vader snapped, striding over with the bawling baby, and, before Jix knew what was happening, dumping him in his arms. "Shut him up," he ordered, before pivoting around on his heel and stalking out the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Jix stared after him, baby Kor wailing in his arms, stunned at the temper the boy's last name had produced. _What was that all about?_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Jix had always heard that having a baby changed you; that you were never the same person after you've had a child. This may have been true for most parents, but it obviously wasn't true for Vader. If Jix had expected Vader to suddenly go soft, to suddenly not terrorize star systems on a weekly basis, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, Vader had become more ruthless than ever; holonet reporters actually commented, however subtly, on Vader's increased aggression. A week after Kor had officially moved in, Vader had mercilessly crushed a rebellion on Vulvarch, and a few days later firebombed the capital of Bimmisaari.

The only place Jix saw a change was in the Palace staff, and that was that they were suddenly much more prone to gossip. It was as if everyone had realized at once—and perhaps they had—that Lord Vader wasn't a robot. That he was, actually, a person. Of some species. Almost every conversation Jix overheard had to do with Lord Vader—what he was doing, where he was going, where he was from—or the baby—who was the boy's mother, why hadn't Vader mentioned him before, why was Vader keeping him, what was he going to be in the future, etcetera. Jix would have been concerned about the sudden upswing in interest if it hadn't been so normal.

As for the baby itself, no one had apparently seen him, not even Jix. The day he had told everyone about the kid, all the aides had thrown themselves into work. By late that afternoon they had finished the room; it had been done all in whites and steel grays, with a bunch of flowing, ultra-organic shapes. Jix personally thought it looked like how a Kaminoan would decorate a nursery. Nevertheless, Vader had apparently accepted it, for early that evening the doors to the room had locked to everyone but Vader and a golden protocol droid, who had brought the kid, so firmly wrapped in blankets that no one could see it, much less tell its species, inside.

If Vader interacted with the child, how he interacted with it if he did, or how he viewed it, Jix didn't know. The man hadn't summoned him since that first day, and Jix didn't dare approach and ask him.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The past two months had been difficult for Eera Bach'kara. He had been suspended from work pending a formal investigation, much to the distress of himself, his wife, his children, his colleagues, and his students, and most everyone but his wife and children was too frightened to speak with him; everyone knew what the outcome of the investigation could be, and associating with him would be dangerous. It had been a lonely and stressful two months, with him trapped between melancholy and terror.

He sighed into his cup of coffee, staring gloomily out his kitchen window to the alley outside. Being a professor didn't pay much, but it had been a good career. He had had 25 years of happiness.

He heard the sound of his wife waddling into the kitchen, and he felt his chest burn with shame. "I'm sorry, dear," he tweeted. "About all of this."

She chirruped sadly. "I wish you would stop saying that, dear. None of this is your fault. It's this crazy galaxy we live in—and that loathsome man."

Not for the first time, Eera marveled at his wife. He could think of no other woman who would respond to this situation as well as she did. How had he been so lucky as to marry her? She was the most beautiful Mriss in the galaxy, both inside and out. Nothing would make him change his mind about that. He turned to her, his face shining with love.

"My dear," he said admiringly, "You are the light of my life."

Her cheek feathers ruffled with embarrassment. She lowered her eyes. "You say that every day."

"I love you more each day," he explained.

She clucked with embarrassed laughter. "You are a sappy old man," she said reprovingly.

"You knew I was sappy when you married me."

"Yes, but I—"

The comlink chimed, and both Eera and his wife stopped their flirting and turned to it, startled expressions on both their faces. His wife looked at him curiously. "Were you expecting a call, dear?"

"No," said Eera, bewildered. He took a step forward and pressed the button to receive it.

Immediately, a hologram of the Dean of Understudy, Eera's boss, popped up. "Eera!" he beamed. "So glad to see you! Don't know how you pulled it off!"

Eera and his wife exchanged confused looks.

"I'll be happy to have you back teaching," his boss continued. "Professor Ghi'rae is a poor replacement, bless that poor woman's soul."

"Back?" Eera repeated disbelievingly. He had a terrible twisting feeling in his stomach; something must have gone wrong somewhere, some terrible miscommunication. The dean was putting himself in terrible danger!

"Well, of course!" his boss exclaimed happily, then, seeing Eera's bewildered expression, he smiled broadly. "They haven't told you yet! Well, take the first congratulations from me, and I hope to see you back on campus next week! I'll let you go—they're probably on their way now—but I have got to say, you must have some friends in some very high places. Etson was sacked this morning."

And with that confusing note, he ended the transmission. Eera and his wife slowly turned to look at each other. Eera's heart beat unusually hard in his chest.

Covering her beak partly with her feathers, his wife whispered, with big, hopeful eyes. "Back to work on Monday? You don't think he meant—has the investigation been closed?"

Eera shook his head. That would be too good to be true. Things like that didn't happen to people like him. "No. Something's wrong here. They've got me confused with someone else. Surely they'd notify me—"

The buzzer on their apartment door rang, and both his and his wife's heads whipped around. Both looked at each other anxiously. "Stand back," he told her protectively. "I'll get it."

He hurried to the front door, opened it, and poked out his head. Stretching so far above him that Eera had to lean his head back all the way against the wall to see the top of him, was a man in a blue uniform; Eera recognized it as belonging to the Imperial Investigative Committee. He gulped. This was it. The time of truth.

Eera shuffled at his feet, and the man looked down at him in surprise.

"Ah," he exclaimed, and then, after an awkward pause, knelt down so that he and Eera were closer to eye level.

"Dr. Bach'kara," he said. "I am here as a representative of the Imperial Investigation Committee. I am pleased to inform you that you have been cleared of all charges, and that you have permission to resume work immediately."

Eera gaped.

"Now, Professor," said the man, pulling an envelope out of his satchel. "Here are the appropriate documents testifying to your innocence. You need only present them should anyone question it."

Eera took the papers mutely, staring at them with a bit of wonder. It was true? It had really happened?

"You will be pleased to know," the man continued. "That all of the work taken from your office at the school is currently being returned there, and your boss has been notified."

"Y-yes," Eera stuttered. "I heard about that."

Behind him, he felt his wife's claws on his shoulder. "Eera," she hissed. "What is it? Are you being arrested?"

"No," Eera hissed back. "I'll tell you in a minute. I can scarcely believe it myself."

The man cleared his throat, and Eera turned his attention back to him. "I apologize about that," he said immediately. He hoped that wouldn't make the man change his mind.

"It's all good, sir," said the man. "I would just like to say, congratulations on your innocence. I don't get to say it very often." He paused. "And whoever it is you know, I think you'll recognize you owe him—or her—quite a lot."

He inclined his head, marched away, and sped off in his speeder.

Eera stared after him disbelievingly. "But," he muttered in confusion to himself, "I don't know anybody."

"Eera!" his wife hissed. "What's happening?"

Eera slowly closed the door and turned to look at her, shock on his face. "I've been cleared," he said slowly, disbelievingly, "of all charges. I can go back to work."

His wife froze for a moment. Then she beamed. "Oh, Eera!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. "That's so wonderful!"

"Yes," murmured Eera distractedly, "Wonderful."

He gazed down at the envelope in his hand, and a sudden and desperate need filled him. His claws worked the edges of it, slicing it open.

"What are you doing?" his wife asked in confusion.

"Seeing the proof," he said tightly, shaking the papers out of the envelope, "that I'm cleared." He still couldn't believe it.

The necessary paper was at the top of the pile, and he picked it up, reading it hungrily, his heart beating rapidly. "Dr. Eera Bach'kara, we are pleased to inform you—"

"Eera," his wife said suddenly. "What is this?"

Eera glanced up in confusion. His wife held up a very small holo-slip. He recognized the type; they were only readable when the person they were intended for was holding it. Very expensive things. It would have cost Eera a month's pay.

His wife held it out for him. "Here," she said. "It must be for you."

Bewildered, Eera grabbed it. The slip glowed green for a moment, then a simple message appeared above his hands.

"You won't remember me," he read aloud, "but I remember you. You freely gave me advice when I most needed it. I am the type of person that believes in repayment for favors given. Consider this my repayment to you."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The first time Vader stepped into the boy's nursery, he couldn't help but reflect on how out of place it looked in his palace. True, the room maintained the austere feeling so widespread throughout the rest of the building, but the very fact that it was a nursery was just odd.

He took a few more steps inside the room, eyeing it critically. The floor was white tile, present in quite a few rooms in his building. It was a cold material, but they had made an attempt to soften it up by throwing a thick white rug underneath the crib, in the center of the room. All the furniture was white or grey steel, all with flowing lines. The crib itself was oval-shaped, with the two sides that would be headboards covered in some sort of grey steel, and the side-paneling made of a clear glass. To the side was the boy's bassinet, which rather looked like someone had placed a large egg on a stalk and cut out the top fourth of the egg. On the whole, the way the room was decorated, it looked a bit like his aides had asked someone who normally designed ultra-modern spaceships to design a nursery. Vader rather liked it; he didn't cringe when he stepped into the room, which was saying something. He had half expected the room to be a vomit-inducing mishmash of reds and blues.

He slowly walked over to the bassinet, his hand caressing the side of it. He wasn't quite sure why his aides had put a bassinet in there; though he knew little about children, he was pretty sure bassinets were normally put in the parent's bedroom so they could be with the child while it slept. That his aides had put one in the nursery was somewhat worrisome: it suggested that they knew even less about child-rearing than he did. It was not a comforting thought. Vader made a mental note not to let them anywhere near the boy.

Still, thought Vader, stepping away, he might keep the bassinet. It placed the baby at roughly chest-level, which could be convenient for Threepio.

As his thought flicked to Threepio, Vader realized he had one more task to complete. He turned on his heel and left the room, heading back to his suite. If this child-rearing venture was going to work, he would need someone he trusted to care of the boy, and he could think of no one better for than that than someone he himself had created.

Once back inside his bedroom, he strode back into his bathroom, where the medical droid was laying the child on the tile floor, changing its diaper, then back into his closet and into the safe. Against the wall was Threepio; he had been powered-down now for a good seven years, but he should still be operational. Vader considered the droid for a moment, suddenly plagued by doubts, but he quickly shook them off. Having the child and his Force presence around was like having an unmistakable, constant reminder of his mother; what difference did it make to have another? He flipped on Threepio's power switch.

The sound of creaking, screeching metal filled his ears as the droid moved its limbs for the first time in years. As it awkwardly turned around, Threepio's unfailingly polite voice sounded in Vader's ears, "Hello, I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations—Oh, Master Ani!" the droid exclaimed happily, upon finally seeing him. Vader flinched at the sound of his old name. "Bless my circuits, I am so pleased to see you!"

"Threepio," he ordered sternly, "reprogram your memory to refer to me as 'Master Vader' or simply 'Master'—not 'Master Ani' or 'Master Anakin.'"

"Oh." Threepio sounded startled. He was silent for a moment as the request was processed. "Very well, Master Vader. May I inquire as to why?"

Vader had forgotten that he had programmed Threepio to be much more human-like than other droids. Curiosity was part of the package. He inwardly groaned. "No one calls me Anakin anymore, Threepio. Everyone knows me as Lord Vader."

"Oh." Threepio sounded bemused. "May I inquire, then, as to the date?"

Vader had anticipated this question. "The calendar has changed since you were last active," he said. "It is the 321st day of the Fourth Year of the Empire. You were last turned on approximately three years before the Empire, or alternatively, 2,631 days ago. It is"—Vader checked his chrono—"1834 hours. Is that sufficient enough to calculate a date?"

"Yes, Master Vader," said Threepio, sounding a bit bewildered by how much time had gone by, "but I would prefer—"

"I will plug you into an information terminal later," Vader interrupted. "But after I have briefed you on your new instructions and given you the necessary modifications to perform them admirably."

"New instructions?" Threepio enquired.

"Yes. Follow me."

He turned out of the bathroom. Threepio followed him, his servomotors squeaking. Vader stopped in front of the medical droid, who had just finished changing Kor's diaper. Upon seeing the baby, Threepio straightened in surprise. "Oh!" he sounded startled. He turned to Vader. "May I enquire, Lord Vader, as to who this youngling—"

"This is my son," interrupted Vader. "Kor Sidrona Skywalker."

"Your son?" Threepio sounded astonished. He looked back and forth between Vader and the baby. "Why," he said, a hint of delight in his voice, "Congratulations, Master Vader! Mistress Shmi would have been so very pleased!"

Vader stiffened. "I know," he snapped.

Threepio somehow managed to look both startled and affronted. "Why, pardon me, Master Vader. Did I say something wrong?"

Vader exhaled heavily, draining away some of his frustration and anger into the Force. He should have expected Threepio to act like this. He was the one who had programmed him, after all. "No, Threepio," he finally said, a bit wearily. "But please refrain from mentioning my mother again."

Threepio looked confused. His head moved between Kor and Vader several times, as if he didn't quite know what to make of this command, but at last he said, "As you wish, Master Vader."

"Good." Vader leaned over and gingerly picked his son up from the droid. He immediately felt the boy's—Kor's, Vader reminded himself—presence soothe in the Force.

"He looks very much like you, sir," said Threepio, stepping a bit closer and peering down.

"I've noticed," said Vader wryly. "However," his tone changed to a slightly more serious one, "as I do not have the time to care for him, he will be your primary responsibility."

"Mine?" Threepio sounded stunned. "If I am permitted to say, Master Vader, I do not think that is a very good idea. I am not good with children, nor do I have the requisite programming to understand and care for them—"

"I will download it," Vader said flatly. He stared sternly at Threepio. "You will care for him, Threepio. I would entrust him to no other."

"Oh, well." Threepio appeared flattered. "Well, I suppose, if I had the proper programming—"

"Good," Vader cut him off. "Extend your arms, Threepio."

"What?" Threepio appeared flabbergasted.

"Extend your arms."

Threepio did so, appearing confused all the while, and Vader carefully placed Kor in his arms, holding his hands carefully beneath Threepio's in case Threepio dropped him. When he was comfortable Threepio wasn't going to drop the boy, Vader stepped back and eyed them both critically.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully. "I will probably need to modify some of your appendages to make sure you can safely carry him, even as he grows."

"That would probably be a good idea, sir," Threepio informed him.

"Yes," Vader mused, his eyes raking over Threepio's stiff, metallic form. "I think so."

He spent that evening improving Threepio. After ordering a bunch of spare parts from his rattled employees, he settled down to give Threepio some special modifications. He replaced some of the interior backbone of his arms and legs to make them more durable, and extended the flexibility and strength of most every joint in the droid's body. By the time he was done, Threepio had near the flexibility of a normal human, and certainly enough strength to care for a baby. Vader then downloaded the requisite programming—there seemed to be quite a lot on baby care—and equipped Threepio with a built in comlink on his wrist and camera behind his eyes in case of an emergency. He then cleaned him, to get rid of that horrible squeaking.

When it was all done, he powered Threepio back up.

"Oh my," said Threepio immediately, staring around the room. He walked around gingerly, as if testing a new pair of shoes. "I must say, Master Vader, that these are most wonderful improvements! I feel quite ready to do anything."

Vader grinned wryly. "Good. Because you'll be caring for a baby."

Threepio was silent for a moment, no doubt accessing his new information. "Why, yes," he said in satisfaction, "I should be able to do that. Although," he turned to Vader, "my programming indicates that young infants are served well by human contact. I recommend you try and come and visit whenever possible, or else send another human to do so."

Vader frowned. He wasn't so sure about that. But to appease Threepio, he said aloud, "I'll see what I can do."

Threepio inclined his head. "Very good, sir."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Vader wasn't quite sure how Artoo learned of Kor, but he would come to rue the moment it happened. The next morning, after he had set up Threepio and Kor in the nursery, he took an extremely long shower, his mind not on his child, but on the problem of Purple Sky.

He would admit he had paid less attention than he should to Purple Sky, but after having reviewed some recent data on the fiend late last night, the question of why Purple Sky was doing what he was doing had entered his mind and wouldn't go away. The problem, he thought, was that the list of demands Purple Sky had made was simply too random, almost as if they were meant to disguise the true benefits of the demands. Vader theorized that only some of the demands were things Purple Sky truly wanted; he simply threw in the rest to throw the Emperor off his trail. But he would only do that, Vader thought, if the list of true demands could lead the Emperor to him. He would only do it if he were a big enough figure that someone might immediately think of him upon seeing the list of demands. They were looking for, Vader realized, some sort of celebrity.

So intent, though, was Vader on this revelation, that when he stepped out of the shower, only a towel wrapped around his waist, he didn't immediately notice the Artoo unit. But he did when it beeped at him from about two feet away. He jumped and turned to see it staring at him accusingly (if droids could do that).

Had it been any other droid, Vader would have been both shocked and alarmed that it had managed to bypass his security, and get into his bathroom no less. As it was, it was Artoo, and he had gotten used to this.

"What is it?" Vader asked wearily, sidestepping Artoo and grabbing a set of underwear out of the pile of clothes he had had delivered last night.

Artoo beeped indignantly.

"What do you mean, 'I should know'?" He slipped on underwear and pants and rummaged through the pile for a shirt.

Artoo let out a series of angry beeps.

"Oh," said Vader moodily. "The kid."

Artoo beeped reprimandingly. Vader ignored him until the beeps became particularly rude.

"By the Force, Artoo!" he snapped. "Who taught you such crude language?"

Artoo emitted a raspberry sound.

Vader gave him a look. "If you're going to talk like that, I can't let you near him."

Beep.

"Why not? Because _that_," his voice became slightly sardonic, "would be irresponsible parenting."

Artoo let out a series of beeps and whistles that had Vader staring at him incredulously. "Who told you he had been living in my closet for two weeks?" He scowled. "That medical droid! I ought to—"

Artoo beeped hurriedly, but Vader brushed him off. "I don't care if you forced it out of him!" he snapped. "I ordered it not to tell anyone!"

_I'm going to destroy that droid_, Vader thought to himself, his hand clenching at its side. Why had he ever let it live in the first place? In hindsight, that had been a terrible security breach. Then again, he had been pretty tired by the time he had dismissed it.

Artoo kept on beeping, trying to save the droid, until he finally changed his tune and whistled out a question.

"Why do you need to see him?"

Beep-beep.

"For a droid, you sure are sentimental," Vader remarked. "Why should you care that he's my son?"

An angry whistle.

"_Fine._"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

In the days following, when Vader was on Coruscant, whenever he entered the nursery, Artoo was almost invariably there. And while Vader knew Artoo was loyal to him, he didn't flatter himself so much as to think that Artoo's continued presence in the nursery had anything to do with some sort of misguided dedication to his son. Rather, it seemed like Artoo had found a friend in Threepio, a fact Vader found both strange and entertaining, as their friendship seemed to consist primarily of them insulting each other.

There was a downside to this friendship, as Vader found out, and that was that the two gossiped with each other. While Threepio was much too timid to berate him, Artoo was not. Only a week after Vader had introduced the two, he stepped out of the shower to once more find Artoo glaring at him.

"What _is it?_" Vader snapped in exasperation. He pointed a warning finger at him. "Don't make a habit out of this!"

Artoo made a dismissive beep, and Vader growled warningly. It had been a long week, and the Dark Side was still singing in him from the firebombing of Bimmi. Artoo better not be too impertinent or he'd find himself in tiny pieces!

"What do you want?" he demanded through gritted teeth.

Artoo launched into a flurry of angry beeps and whistles, and Vader's mirror promptly shattered. "Who do you think you are?" he roared at the little droid. "Do not tell me how to run my life!"

Artoo's beeps were of sheer defiance.

"What do you mean I'm ruining his life?" snarled Vader, his hands clenched as his side, his temple throbbing angrily. He was two seconds away from turning Artoo into spare parts. How dare the little droid criticize his parenting skills? What did he know? He was an astromech!

Artoo beeped hurriedly, and Vader glared. "That's ridiculous! I'm not doing that!"

Artoo beeped and whistled again, more urgently, and Vader glowered at him, "I don't care what researchers say! The boy doesn't need me cuddling him! He will be independent!"

Beep!

"His age shouldn't matter!"

An angry beep.

"What do you mean, 'yes, it does'?"

Artoo launched into a very long, detailed explanation, broken only by reproving beeps every time Vader glowered at him. Vader told Artoo 'no' that day, and the day after that, and the day after that, but on the fourth morning that he stepped out of the shower to see Artoo waiting for him, prepared to argue the point, Vader sighed wearily. Nothing was worth this.

"Fine!" he snapped, before Artoo could make a sound. "I'll visit the brat every day!"

An angry beep.

"Fine, twice a day!"

Which is what Artoo had been trying to get him to do all along. Apparently, among the baby-care information Vader had uploaded into Threepio's servers there had been several articles detailing what sort of problems occurred when a baby was raised solely by droids; that is, they apparently developed all sorts of emotional attachment issues. Threepio had mentioned this to Artoo, extremely worried about Kor, and Artoo had taken it upon himself to force Vader into baby duty.

So every morning, after a night of nightmares, and often at Artoo's prodding—if only he could create a security system capable of keeping that droid out!—Vader dragged himself out of bed and into Kor's room, where he normally spent a good twenty minutes or so holding the boy, generally eating or reading reports on his datapad to pass the time. In the evening he did similarly, generally coming to visit the child at 1800.

The boy did seem to enjoy Vader's presence. It happily latched onto Vader's Force aura every time the man was somewhere near the top floor, and it generally cooed happily when in Vader's arms. Threepio had told him he was supposed to respond, normally with a smile, when the brat did this, so Vader had made an attempt; Artoo had then told him scathingly that it looked like a grimace. Afterwards, Vader had resorted to simply stroking the boy's mind if Threepio informed him any sort of positive response was necessary. There were all other sorts of things Threepio had him do—rub the child's back, hold it close when it cried (he really hated that), and occasionally feed him with the bottle Threepio provided. After just a week, Vader not only wasn't sure why he had decided to keep the brat, but he wasn't sure why any parent ever decided to have children, and Vader was only responsible for the thing part of the day! He didn't know how normal parents did it, all the time.

Still, as much as Vader loathed having to take care of the kid—it felt like all it did was cry—he couldn't deny that _occasionally_ he found the boy _mildly_ interesting. It did look a lot like him, and it was a bit strange to think that _he_ had probably looked like that. And for a creature so small, Vader acknowledged, it did seem to have an unusually strong awareness of his surroundings; the slightest change was greeted with great curiosity. According to Threepio, some of this was not normal.

For example, one day, Kor was lying on the floor, Vader absently rubbing his stomach, when Kor suddenly turned his head to the side. Vader glanced over to see the mouse droid he had programmed to clean the room whirring in the corner.

"Most unusual, sir," said Threepio, when he saw Vader following his son's gaze.

"What is?"

"His eyesight," Threepio responded. "Most babies his age cannot see more than a foot away, but observe—his eyes are focused. He can see the droid from all the way across the room."

"Hmm," said Vader. "It's probably a physical manifestation of his Force power, then." Come to think of it, both he and Palpatine had very good vision, and he had never heard of a Jedi having trouble seeing.

"And his hearing is quite excellent, too, sir, if I may say so," said Threepio, sounding not unlike a proud parent. "I play an audiolator every morning, and he has shown signs of being able to distinguish between very similar sounds. Plus," Threepio continued, "He is very alert for his age. He shows signs of being quite intelligent."

"Good," Vader muttered. He briefly wondered if it was easier to raise an intelligent child than a dumb one. Probably not.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The information made its way to Xizor, Prince of the House of Sizhran, unusually slowly. That was because the spy in Vader's palace had debated with himself back and forth as to whether or not he should give it up. The spy hadn't really wanted to work for Xizor anyway—he had been forced into it, as a matter of fact—and he didn't want to feel responsible for anything bad happening to a baby. But then the thought entered his mind—what if Xizor had other spies, and already knew?—so he eventually decided there was no recourse but to give it up.

The look on Xizor's face made him wish he hadn't; it was obvious the Falleen hadn't known of the child.

"Are you sure?" Xizor asked, his nostrils flaring with excitement.

"Yes," said the spy slowly, "Lord Vader's assassin—and I've already told you, I don't know who he is," he added, upon seeing Xizor open his mouth, "confirmed it himself. And the same afternoon the Dark Lord's personal aides rushed to buy the materials necessary for a nursery. If it's not his child, it is_ a_ child, most assuredly."

Xizor processed this, leaning back into his chair and tapping his claws against his desk. "A child," he murmured thoughtfully, "there is a child living in Lord Vader's household. Whether or not it is his is irrelevant—it obviously is of great importance to him, whatever the case, else he would not have kept it. Hmm." He met the spy's eyes. "Find out everything you can about the child, including who or what takes care of it, and where it can be found." He paused. "And if you have the chance to take the child…take it."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

In all the time Vader had lived on Coruscant, he had never actually been to its university. This, he concluded, was rather pathetic. The nearest campus was only a few minutes away from Imperial City by speeder, and he would have thought that at least a few Imperial functions would have been held there.

It just goes to show, he thought, exiting the speedway, how little regard politicians held for education. They probably all held grudges against the place for not admitting them, or something as equally moronic.

Vader glanced up at the complex of buildings that housed this particular branch of the University. It was a shining array of glass buildings, all blue-green and sleek. They reminded Vader a bit of the buildings he had fought under on Christophsis, during the Clone Wars.

He parked his speeder on the visitor's landing pad and strode out to the admin. building. Several students brushed by him, paying him no mind. This was always the disorienting part about going out without the mask: the fact that no one paid any attention to him.

Inside, Vader was slightly disoriented by the feel of the place; its atmosphere felt similar to a mix between a library and a bureaucratic office. He spotted a campus map on the wall, studied it for a moment, and then turned on his heel and headed toward the main office.

"Excuse me?" he asked the woman at the front desk, upon entering.

She peered up at him. "Can I help you?" Her eyes raked over him curiously. Vader supposed he did stand out a bit; he was a little too old for the average student, and he was dressed in rather somber black clothes.

"Yes," said Vader. "I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find Dr. Bach'kara right now."

"Ah, yes, Bach'kara," she said, sounding pleased. "Such a kind fellow. So good what happened to him. I think he has a class right now…Let me check." She pulled up a screen on the holonet and did a quick search function. "Yes," she confirmed, nodding quickly and looking back up at him. "He's currently teaching Intro to Human Psyc. It should be over in about 15 standard minutes. You can meet him outside the classroom or sit in on the end of the lecture; people do it all the time."

"Excellent," said Vader. He turned to go, then turned back quickly. "What room is it in?"

"It's in Ipera 310; it's a big lecture hall. Take this main hallway to the right and keep on going for about a standard block. It should be on the left."

"Great." Then he added, because it was probably the normal thing to do, "Thanks."

"No problem, dear."

_Dear?_ Vader repeated to himself as he strode out of the office and turned right into the main hall. _What is it about academics and friendly appellations? 'Dear'? 'My friend'? Academics are way too trusting. It's a wonder they survive at all._

He came upon the classroom maybe two minutes later and slipped into the back row without being noticed. It was a huge lecture hall, capable of sitting maybe 2,000 students, and it was about 80% full. Dr. Bach'kara stood on the central teacher's desk, lecturing. From the holographic notes on the board, today's lecture was about child development.

_The irony_, thought Vader, amplifying his hearing so he could listen in.

"So," said the Mriss, clasping his claws together, "let's sum up today's lesson about a child's emotional needs and their neural development."

Vader felt a strange sense of foreboding.

"Would anyone care to summarize the first point?" He peered around at the first few rows, and pointed, "Yes?"

Vader couldn't see the speaker, but he could tell by the accent it was probably a Twi'lek. "The point was about what's more important for healthy brain development: intellectual encouragement, or emotional needs? You suggested that it's emotional needs. Recent studies—conducted by yourself"—a few laughs among the students—"and others have suggested that parents forcing their children to learn early is actually counterproductive, making them see learning as a chore. Whereas those parents who simply bond with their children emotionally actually encourage intelligence, because children are more confident, happy, and curious."

"Correct," said Dr. Bach'kara, clasping his claws together again. "In simple terms, let children be children. It's becoming a bit rarer now. Parents want their children to have a competitive edge. They ask, what can I do to make them smarter? So they cram numbers and colors and shapes down their babies' throats before the poor kids can even talk properly! Parents seem to forget that there is a difference between knowledge and intelligence. Sure, their children may be a bit more knowledgeable than other children their age, but it's doubtful, even unlikely, that they are any more intelligent." He glanced around again. "Anyone want to summarize the second point? Yes? You."

"You talked about the misconception of young infants being unintelligent," said a Nautolan from the side. He cleared his throat. "Human parents have a tendency to think of their young children as empty receptacles that do nothing but cry, whereas studies have proven that even young children are intelligent and respond best to human interaction such as talking, soothing, or rocking. It stimulates brain activity."

Vader loathed this lesson.

"Excellent," said Dr. Bach'kara, grasping his claws together. His eyes wondered over his students. He saw Vader, and his gaze lingered on him for a moment.

"Well!" said Dr. Bach'kara lightly, breaking Vader's gaze and glancing up at the chrono. "We're running out of time for this lesson! So, we'll have a quiz next lesson on the points discussed today, and I suggest you study for it. That is all your homework." He clapped his hands. "Class dismissed!"

Breaking out into conversation, the students gathered their papers and rose from their seats, gossiping and laughing with each other as they slowly meandered their way out of the lecture hall. Vader stayed seated in the back row, watching them leave, his thoughts in turmoil. Of course Artoo and Threepio had to be right about Kor! A good parent would spend a lot of time with the brat. But Vader _couldn't _be around to take care of the kid. There was no way he could provide the sort of emotional security the professor was referring to. The boy would just have to cope.

The last of the students trickled out, and Vader looked up to see the little Mriss climbing up the stairs toward him. It looked pretty difficult; they were almost as high as he was.

"Dr. Bach'kara," said Vader, standing in the back row.

The professor smiled kindly at him. "My friend! It is so good to see you again. I was wondering if I would ever get the chance."

Vader shifted uncomfortably. Again, with the 'my friend' thing.

"And please call me Eera," the Mriss wheezed once he had reached the top step. He caught his breath for a moment, then smiled again up at Vader. "What shall I call you, friend?"

Vader paused. There was only one other name he would respond to.

"Anakin."

"Anakin," Eera repeated thoughtfully. "It's a very nice name, though not one I'm familiar with." He turned toward the door. "I have a free period next. We can talk in my office or the adjoining conference room, if you'd like. I'd like to hear about your baby."

Vader followed him, though he wasn't quite sure why he did so. He wasn't even sure why he had sought out the professor in the first place, only that he had felt like it. And now, after having listened to a lecture that basically instructed him to devote a large portion of the day to his kid, lest he end up stupid, he was heading to the professor's office to talk about that leech on his life. It was like he couldn't control himself. The boy was taking over.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

"So," said Eera, upon entering his room. Vader was briefly stunned by the piles of datapads littering the floor, some as tall as him. "Sorry about the mess," said Eera, upon seeing his face. "I've been doing a lot of catch-up since returning."

"I can see," said Vader, recovering. He followed the Mriss as it expertly weaved its way into the room and stopped next to what he supposed was the visitor's chair.

"Please, sit," Eera invited him, working his way to the other side of the desk. Vader couldn't see him through the mountains of datapads. "Would you like some tea?" he called loudly. "Very nice tea, from Mrisst. No one ever wants any."

"Thanks," said Vader, "but I just ate."

He heard Eera sigh, and then the little thing clambered onto his chair on the other side of the desk. In his hands he held his own very tiny glass of tea, and he took a sip of it before peering up at Vader.

"So," he asked, "What is his name?"

"Kor," said Vader, a little uncomfortably.

"Kor," mused Eera. "That's a very interesting name. But ironic. You see, the sound, Kor, is actually very similar to a word in my native language—Kor'h, which is a type of jewel found only on Mrisst."

"Is it?"

"Yes," said Eera, taking another sip and leaning back in his chair. "It's an iridescent stone, mined from the bottom of the sea. Unusual stone. Very beautiful, though."

Vader wasn't sure he liked the idea of his son's name having a jewelry connotation, but decided not to mention it. Eera seemed pleased by the name, anyway.

"When was he born?"

Vader shifted in his chair. "A little over a month ago."

"Look like you?"

"Almost identical."

Eera chirruped a little laugh. "That is probably a good thing, as I think you are probably very handsome for a human. Though," he amended, "even after all these years sometimes I still have difficulty determining what humans find beautiful. Still," he smiled, "you cannot tell with me, but I am actually a very ordinary-looking Mriss. My wife, on the other hand, is quite beautiful. I was very pleased that all three of our children ended up looking like her."

"You have children?" Vader asked in interest. For some reason he had never pictured that, when the creature first talked to him.

"Yes," said Eera, a proud expression crossing his face. "One son, two daughters, all hatched from the same batch of eggs. They're all grown up now, have jobs—except my older daughter, she's doing some advanced coursework back on Mrisst." His face dropped a little. "None of them live on Coruscant, so I don't get to see them often."

Vader didn't think the sound of his child living thousands of light years away sounded too bad, but it was obvious the professor didn't share that sentiment. "Where do the other two work?"

"My boy, Kintu," said Eera proudly, "works for the Eento Research Corporation"—that was a prestigious company—"on one of their labs on Haldeen, and my other daughter, Elra, works as an archivist for the University of Agamar."

"Agamar," said Vader, slightly surprised. Obscure system. "That's a long ways away. Outer Rim, right?"

Eera sighed heavily. "Yes," he said, with a touch of weariness. "Too far, for my tastes. But her husband works as a professor there, and she'd follow him to the depths of the Core if that was where he needed to go."

"Such strong devotion," Vader commented, a little disbelievingly.

Eera chuckled. "Yes, the two are crazy about each other. They've known each other since they were little chicks. Both grew up here." He shifted his shoulders, getting a bit more comfortable, and sighed in pleasure.

"So," he said, "I suspect, from the hesitance with which you talk about your son, that you are not entirely comfortable doing so. Am I right in guessing you're not quite sure why you're here?"

Vader stared at him somewhat incredulously. If the Mriss had been Force-sensitive, Vader would have thought it had read his mind.

Upon seeing his expression, Eera said, by way of explanation, "My friend, I have studied human psychology for a very long time. Let's assume I am somewhat good at reading body language."

Vader shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like the idea of the Mriss analyzing his every move.

As if he had picked up on that thought, the Mriss smiled kindly and changed the subject. "Well, I am in a rather chatty mood, so I think it might be convenient to assume that you are here to simply talk—about what, we'll see. Agreed?"

Vader nodded mutely. He felt like he was watching the entire conversation from outside of his own body.

"So, my friend, I know so little about you. Tell me about yourself." Vader stiffened. "What, for example, do you do for a living?"

Vader racked his brains for a nice way of putting it. "I…" he said slowly, "…work with the military."

"Ah," said Eera, suddenly serious, "I understand. I'll not pry there. I know a lot of things associated with the military are classified."

"Yes." That would be an understatement.

"Very well," said Eera, nonplussed. "Then let's try another track. What do you like to do in your spare time?"

"What's that?" asked Vader, wryly.

Eera chuckled. "My sentiments, often. But truly, is there any hobby you enjoy?"

Vader thought for a moment. "Flying, I suppose." He had never really thought of it as a hobby before.

"Ah, flying," said the professor, rather sentimentally. "The joy of all Mriss—or indeed, any avian sentient."

"You enjoy flying as well?" Vader asked, in true interest. It seemed few shared that joy.

"Indeed I do," Eera confirmed. "Although, unfortunately, I don't get to do it as often as I like. I do have my own starship—scrimped and saved to get it, so it's not the newest model—and I had to specially modify it to fit my size."

Vader smiled slightly. He could imagine that. "What model is it?"

"A Nubian 322, M-model."

"That is a moderately fast ship," Vader observed. Though a cheap one. "It must be convenient for visiting your children."

Eera smiled mischievously. "Indeed it is. It quite annoyed them when they were studying at the university. They all went to academies on Mrisst, and I could pop in on them any time I had a free weekend."

Vader couldn't imagine spending any more time with his child than need be.

Perhaps sensing this, Eera changed the subject. "What other hobbies do you have, my friend Anakin?"

"What other hobbies do you have, professor?"

Eera looked startled for a moment, and then he laughed good-naturedly. "I suppose that is only fair. If you tell, I must as well. Hmm," he tapped his claws on his desk thoughtfully, "well, other than flying, I enjoy spending time with my wife, playing puzzles and board games, and people-watching."

People-watching? Vader couldn't imagine anything more sickening. "I imagine if I did the lattermost," he remarked, "I would very well seek to avoid people."

Eera arched an eyebrow. "Then you must spend your time around the wrong sort of people."

"I undoubtedly do," Vader replied. "Politicians are the scum of the universe."

Eera seemed torn between amusement and consternation. At last he said, a bit of humor in his voice, "I can't say I've had any positive experiences with politicians."

"No one can."

"Speaking of slimy politicians," said Eera, brightening, "did you hear about the Senator from Nubia?"

Of course Vader had. Palpatine was still ruminating on a suitable punishment. If the man hadn't been an idiot, Vader might have felt sorry for him.

"He stole secrets from Imperial Intelligence," said Vader, "and attempted to sell them to the Hutts."

Now that he thought of it, what a terrible sign of the Intelligence Department's security if an imbecile like Senator Hiivus was capable of stealing information from it. Vader made a mental note to execute the person responsible for this lapse.

"Do you know what they're going to do to him?" Eera seemed fascinated despite himself. Vader suspected gossip might be a hobby he had refrained from mentioning.

"It will be up to the Emperor to decide," said Vader, leaning back in his chair.

"Or Lord Vader," amended Eera, taking a sip of tea.

Vader tried not to stiffen, but it was just so strange to hear someone talk about him in third person.

"No," he said eventually, "I doubt it. A high-ranking Imperial traitor that lives less than a block away from the palace? The Emperor will take a personal interest in it."

"Hmm," said Eera thoughtfully, "I suppose you're right. Had Lord Vader been in charge of the punishment, the man would be dead now, and people would have forgotten about the scandal already."—_True_, thought Vader.—"As it is, we're all waiting in anticipation to see what happens to him. I suppose that's one way for the Emperor to remind everyone who's boss."

_Undoubtedly_, thought Vader. The man enjoyed spectacles.

"And the governor of Metellos," the Mriss continued, "He decided to…"

They continued talking for another hour or so. Though Vader wasn't typically the one to get into popular gossip, he admitted he rather enjoyed lambasting the stupidity of the politicians he most loathed, especially with someone capable of as many creative descriptions as the professor. But despite the fact that he was surprisingly enjoying himself, Vader had to excuse himself after a while: there was a galaxy to run, rebellions to crush, that sort of thing.

"Oh, of course!" exclaimed Eera, when Vader said he had to leave. Vader stood up and weaved his way through the datapads to the door. His hand was extending towards the open button, when Eera said, from behind him:

"Before you go…"

Vader turned around and looked at him questioningly.

Eera took a few hesitant steps forward on his desk, peering up at him anxiously. "I'm not sure I should even be saying this," he said, twisting his hands nervously, "but I suspect…that you're the one that helped me, not too long ago."

Vader stilled.

Eera took another step forward. "I tried to think of who I had given unsolicited advice to, and though I do that quite often, for some reason your face kept on popping up in my mind." He hesitated, "That, and I had told you about the investigation, and you knew today that you would find me here instead of at home."

Vader didn't say anything.

"So, I understand you probably can't confirm that you're the one who…saved my life. And my job. But if you are, I wanted to thank you."

Vader was quiet for a long time. "Well," he said at last, blandly, "I have no idea what you're talking about, professor."

"Of course you don't," said Eera, smiling, "But thank you anyway."

"I'll see you again, professor."

"Please do. I enjoy talking with you."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

He didn't do it consciously. Indeed, had he noticed at first that he was doing it, he probably would have tried to stop himself. But by the time he realized it, it was too engrained of a habit. At least twice a week, whenever the bombing of a city, or the pandering of politicians, or the machinations of his master, or the annoying problem of Purple Sky, or the crying of his kid began to overwhelm him, Vader slipped out of his palace and into the city, heading, sometimes without forethought, to the Imperial campus of the University of Coruscant.

"Job getting too much for you?" Eera would ask sympathetically as soon as Vader flopped into his spare chair.

Vader would just nod mutely. It was an unspoken rule between them that speaking about Vader's job was strictly off-limits.

"I see," Eera would say. And if he was busy, he would add, "Here, help me with this."

So sometimes Vader would just sit in silence, helping the Mriss organize his files—how Eera ever found anything, Vader didn't know; the creature was so messy. Or sometimes he'd be grading tests, or organizing his lesson, or fixing the virus on his computer. Occasionally they would head over to the university archives, where Vader would help the Mriss look for a specific article for his class.

If Eera wasn't busy, he and Vader would just talk—never about Kor, never about his job, usually not about anything personal—sometimes it would be about politics, sometimes it would be about the worlds they had traveled to, and sometimes it would be about completely mundane things, like the traffic on the E77 Speedway, which they both agreed was horrendous. Sometimes these conversations took place in the office, and sometimes they went out for a walk on the quad, the Mriss balancing precariously on Vader's shoulder. Wherever they went, whenever they ran into someone Eera knew—and this happened often—Eera would introduce Vader as, "My friend, Anakin."

The appellation sounded odd to Vader at first, but over time he got used to it, though he didn't agree it was an accurate term to describe their relationship. To Vader, Eera was a break from the complications of the rest of his life, someone who was easy to talk to and never pressed him for details he wasn't comfortable sharing, and who he knew was not secretly plotting his demise. And Vader respected him, strange as it was; he acknowledged that the Mriss's brain was formidable, though the creature itself was only slightly larger than Kor. And he didn't have that oily, unctuous feeling of the politicians and cowardly officers Vader spent most of his day around.

"In fact," said Vader one day, as they were strolling around a quad. "The only person I find mildly tolerable at work is my…assistant, Jix."

"Mildly tolerable?" Eera repeated in amusement. "That is a high compliment coming from you."

Vader made a noncommittal sound. "I would prefer it if he were not so insubordinate."

"Insubordinate?" Eera arched an eyebrow. "And what do you mean by that? I imagine someone who is truly insubordinate would not last long in the Imperial military."

"He often borders on insubordination," clarified Vader. "He has no decorum whatsoever."

Eera laughed. "From what I can tell of your personality, my friend, perhaps that is why you like him."

Vader glanced at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Eera smiled, looking out at the quad. "Well," he said, "you despise cowards, and you have no respect for mindless followers. It sounds as if your friend Jix is neither of these. You respect that, even if it annoys you."

"Hmm," said Vader, considering the possibility and gazing out at the quad, where a group of Zabraks and Twi'leks were laughing together.

He must have had a very strange expression on his face, for Eera asked, with sudden interest, "Did you ever attend university?"

"No," said Vader flatly, dragging his eyes away from the students and back onto the path in front of him. "No. University was never a possible future for me." Not before his master found him, and definitely not after.

A sad expression crossed Eera's face. "I am truly sorry," he hooted sadly. "University is an enriching experience."

Vader tried to picture himself at nineteen, at home in the university archives, or studying in his dorm room, or playing on the quad, and couldn't. "I'm not," he said finally, "I don't think I'm suited for university life. I am far too impatient."

Eera snorted. "That can be said of most students. And yet they still like it here." Seeing the resolve in Vader's expression, though, he changed tracks a little. "Had you attended university, what would you have studied?"

That question was a little easier to answer. "Engineering," Vader answered immediately. "I'm good with anything mechanical. I was fixing droids before I could speak more than a few words."

"Indeed?" asked Eera in interest. "Have you ever built a droid?"

_Oh had he_. "I built my first droid by the time I was nine," said Vader, recalling the moment Threepio had first sprung to life. He had been so excited. "A protocol droid. About the same time I finished a podracer."

Eera looked stunned. "But that's incredible!" he exclaimed, staring up at Vader with wide eyes. "Our engineering students, for their final project, are required to build a droid. I have never even heard of a child building a droid, much less a podracer."

Vader shrugged. "Mechanics has always been a talent of mine." It had really helped out a lot, back then. That podracer had sold for a lot of money.

"How well did they work—the droid, the podracer?" Eera was teetering with excitement.

"They worked well." Vader was surprised at the question. He added, a bit smugly, "All of my creations work well." He paused for a moment, thinking, "I am still using the protocol droid," he admitted. "I sold the pod. But it was a winning pod." He didn't tell him, who, exactly, was piloting it when it won.

Eera was obviously fascinated. "You are a protégé!" he exclaimed. "A mechanical genius! That's amazing!"

Vader was surprised at the little bird's interest. He had never considered his mechanical talent to be anything extraordinary.

"You would have made a great engineer," said Eera a little wistfully. "One of the best, probably. Every company would want to hire you."

_Not_, thought Vader, _if they knew who I truly was._

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

It had taken two weeks of close observation, but the spy had determined that the child lived in the room and never left it. For one, Vader disappeared into it like clockwork twice a day for a predetermined amount of time, and he always left in a sour mood. Two, the spy had carefully observed the delivery droids, and he noticed that the ingredients for formula and several unmarked boxes he suspected carried diapers were taken into the room daily.

It had taken another three weeks for the spy to determine the security measures around the room. They were quite extensive, though not as impenetrable as those of Vader's private suite: these had been erected hastily. The child could be collected, theoretically, if there were not more security measures inside. There were two crucial elements to the plan, though: it could only be done if a security technician was on their side, and if that annoying personal assassin wasn't in the palace.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

"What did you do with his mother?" Vader asked Jix one day, after he had summoned him to his living room.

It was a totally off-topic question, and Jix was momentarily taken aback by it. He had spent the past two hours detailing his mission to Drall, and after all of that Vader asked him _this?_ Anger flared, briefly, but was replaced by a sense of confusion that Vader was even interested.

"I left her alone, on Naboo," he said, staring at Vader strangely. "She thought she miscarried." He was pretty sure he had told Vader this.

Vader was staring out the window at the Coruscanti cityscape, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Why?" he added.

"You dare question me?" asked Vader. It was a curious tone; he didn't sound angry.

"Yes," said Jix bluntly. "Why?"

He could see the edges of Vader's mouth curve into a slight smile before the whole miraculous event ended. "It's of no consequence," said Vader at last. "I was merely curious."

Jix didn't believe that for a moment. "_Really?_"

"Really," Vader confirmed.

"Do you spend a lot—"

"I don't wish to discuss it," Vader interrupted. "I have another assignment for you to begin."

"But—"

"We will not be talking about it." Vader's tone hardened. "I have another assignment for you, which I must detail, as you must begin immediately. It concerns Purple Sky."

Subdued, Jix inclined his head and sighed heavily. "Yes, Lord V."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

On some days, it seemed like everyone Vader knew was trying to make him like Kor. Jix would leave not-so-subtle hints: "How is the baby doing? You taking care of him? I heard from Artoo he looks just like you. That's good." The professor was a bit more subtle. He generally opted to start talking about his children and all the joy they gave him; in fact, he did this so subtly that Vader never knew whether he was intentionally trying to make Vader think of Kor, or if Vader was so warped by parenthood by now that he simply thought of Kor anyway.

Artoo and Threepio, however, weren't subtle at all. Shortly after Kor had turned three months old, Threepio had taken to praising everything the child did. "Your son is truly extraordinary, Master Vader," he said to him earnestly one day, "He has the mental development and physical strength of a six month old, not a three month old. He is truly unique."

Artoo added, with an impertinent beep, "Despite the fact that you neglect him."

Vader's hand clenched at his side. "I don't neglect him," he argued with Threepio. "He has everything he needs, and he occupies at least three hours of my day every day I'm home. That's more time than I give anyone, even Eera." He stared down at his son, who was rolling from his stomach onto his back. "And I don't even enjoy the time I spend with him," he muttered.

Upon seeing Vader, the baby smiled, then grabbed his foot and stuck it in his mouth. "Stupid little thing," Vader added, reaching down and plucking the toe out.

Kor gave Vader a very confused and distressed look. A tiny little whimper escaped his mouth. Vader bit back a groan. It seemed like everything he did made the child cry!

"Here," he said somewhat desperately, reaching into the box full of toys Threepio had brought. He pulled out a large, soft ball that flashed different colors. With a touch of the Force he levitated it and had it fly loops around Kor.

The distraction worked. Kor's dismayed expression changed to one of wonderment, and he craned his neck trying to follow the ball's progress. He reached out his chubby little hand to try and snatch it, but it was too far out of reach. Vader slowed down the ball a little, coaxing him to try again. An expression that could only be described as stubborn crossed the babe's face, and with monumental effort he lifted himself into a sitting position, wobbling precariously. He made one heroic grab, caught it, and promptly fell backward onto his back.

Vader tensed, expecting him to cry again—didn't he always cry?—but instead a mischievous smiled crossed the boy's face, and he started giggling, as if to say, _Can you believe I just did that and got away with it?_

Vader stared for a moment, stunned, then a small, genuinely-amused laugh escaped him before he was able to catch himself. It was just so similar to the things he used to do as the child. That expression had crossed his face many a time in front of his mother.

"I supposed you are a little clever," he acknowledged, grabbing one of Kor's feet and tickling it until the child was shrieking with laughter. "But just a little."

In the corner, Threepio and Artoo watched in stunned silence.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Vader was in such a foul mood that evening that after finishing his necessary workload he fled the palace in a hurry and was halfway to the University of Coruscant when he realized that Eera wouldn't be holding class now. He pulled over to the side of the speedway, debating with himself, before finally punching in the number to the professor's comlink. He had never actually used the number before, so he was not greatly surprised when Eera picked it up sounding a little confused.

"Hello? Who is this? Can I help you?" In the background, Vader could hear the sound of water running and dishes clanking in a sink.

"Eera," said Vader. "This is Anakin." He paused, hesitant, "Is this a bad time?"

"No!" Eera sounded delighted. "No, I am actually quite free this evening and was getting rather bored. My wife, you see, has gone out with friends."

"Oh," said Vader. "Well, then…" He didn't know how to phrase it.

"Perhaps we should meet up," Eera suggested brightly. "I would invite you over, but I'm not quite sure you could fit through our front door. I know a good place in CocoTown, if you can make it. It's called Dexter's Diner."

"I can find it," said Vader, closing the link and pulling back into the traffic lane.

He found it in a few minutes, then flew off a ways to find a safe place to park his speeder before walking back toward it.

Once inside, he glanced around somewhat curiously. The place reminded him a little bit of the cantinas he had eaten at with Kitster back on Tatooine—small, dingy, but extremely popular with the locals and with clientele of all races. He couldn't sense the professor's Force signature yet, so he weaved his way to a secluded back table and sat, peering out the window. No one paid him much attention, for which he was exceedingly grateful. Today had been a long day.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The call went into the palace at approximately 2200. Jix tapped into it, along with several hundred others working on the issue of Purple Sky. Within seconds a miniature hologram appeared before Jix, one of a tall humanoid garbed in garish purple robes and a grotesque purple mask. Whoever Purple Sky was, Jix thought grumpily, he needed a new wardrobe designer.

"My Emperor," said the figure oily, bowing to the point Jix assumed the Emperor sat in the original transmission. "I come before you today with yet another…humble request."

The Emperor's reply was blocked, but Jix could only imagine how scathing it was.

To his credit, the humanoid didn't flinch. "Should my request be denied," he continued pointedly, "I might be forced to release to the rebellion the schematics of the project currently under the direction of Moff Tarkin." Jix stiffened immediately. He was referring to the Death Star plans! How had he managed to get those? Even Vader didn't have them!

Jix couldn't even imagine what the Emperor was saying, but whatever it was made Purple Sky sound cruelly amused when he said, "In exchange for not releasing these plans, I humbly request that the Child Protection Law 1.23, Mankind Protection Law 8.24, subsection 5, and Trafficking Law 89 be revoked."

Jix's jaw dropped. Those were the slavery laws! The man wanted to institute slavery again? Was he _insane?_ When Vader found out about this, he was going to be livid. Because there was no way the Emperor would allow the Death Star plans to be released. He'd rather institute slavery again.

In desperation, Jix turned to the computer he had set up next to him. "Have you finished input?"

The computer's lights blinked erratically for a moment. "Yes, Master Jixton," it said at last. "Enough data has been gathered to begin processing. Running algorithm now. Estimated time to completion: two hours."

In a second, Jix's desperation turned to elation.

"I've got you," he hissed fiercely to the now-muted form of Purple Sky. Jix surged from his chair and grabbed his coat as he ran from the room. It was time to find Vader.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Vader felt the professor's presence emerge in his mind, and a minute later the door chimed. He glanced up, but he couldn't see the little bird from that far back. A second later, though, the Mriss popped into view, carrying with him a large box and weaving his way in and around the tables.

"I figured you would want a secluded table," he piped, upon seeing Vader, "So I figured I'd start the search there."

"You know me so well," said Vader dryly.

"Only your personality, my friend," said Eera, hopping into the seat across from Vader, setting up the box, and promptly sitting on it so his head could see over the top of the table.

"So," he said, upon seeing the tense way in which Vader was holding himself, "What is wrong? I hardly ever see you at night."

Vader shifted in his seat. "Nothing is wrong," he said, puzzling over it for a moment. "I am simply…angry."

"You are often angry," Eera observed. "Anger, though, most often has a cause in humans—at least in males, anyway. But sometimes it is difficult for us to determine what causes it. What were you doing, before you got angry?"

"Work," said Vader, thinking back on it. He had been planning the invasion of the planet Ghali. "But that went well," he added.

"Then what were you doing before that?" Eera questioned.

Vader's mind flicked to early that evening, and he felt his mood plummet. "I was with my son," he said shortly.

"Ah," said Eera slowly, his eyes flicking over Vader's face. "Therein, I think, lies the origin of your anger. You are quite angry about something that happened with your son earlier today. Did he misbehave?"

Vader thought back on the encounter. "No," he said, "he was well-behaved. Though he did put his foot in his mouth once."

Eera arched an eyebrow. "Your son put his foot in his mouth?" he repeated somewhat incredulously. "He's only three months old, is he not?"

Vader nodded shortly.

Eera shook his head in amazement. "That is a physical, developmental milestone normally only reached when the child is around five or six months," he said. He smiled up at Vader. "It seems as though your son has inherited a lot from you."

"So says Threepio," Vader muttered under his breath.

Eera heard it. "Who?" he asked in interest.

Vader sighed heavily. "Threepio," he said. "He's the protocol droid that takes care of my son during the day."

"A protocol droid?" asked Eera curiously. "That is an unusual choice for taking care of a child. I did not know they were equipped to do that."

"This one is specially modified," explained Vader, ordering a cup of tea off the holomenu that popped up.

Eera placed his order as well, then paused as if a thought had just crossed his mind. "By any chance, is Threepio the same droid you built when you were young?"

Vader gaped at him. How could he have _possibly _guessed that?

Upon seeing Vader's expression, a delighted smile crossed Eera's face. "He is?" he exclaimed, flapping the wings on his back excitedly. "Well, isn't that something else!"

Vader couldn't believe how good the little creature was. How could someone become that good at human psychology? How had he managed to guess that? More importantly, could he have possibly guessed anything else? He looked at Eera a little warily. He felt uncomfortable knowing that the professor could possibly know things about him he didn't want him to know.

His unease must have shown—or the professor must have guessed it—for a worried expression crossed his face. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "I didn't mean to intrude on your private life—it's just, I find that fact somewhat fascinating from a psychological viewpoint."

"And how is it fascinating?" asked Vader warily.

"It suggests," said Eera, "that you associate your son with your past."

Vader's lips tightened. "I don't like to think about my past."

Eera looked at him gravely. "Exactly."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

At first Jix didn't really believe the coordinates coming from Vader's comlink. CoCo Town? _Really?_ What was Vader doing _there?_

But he didn't reflect on it too much as he raced his speeder down to that level. It was much too important to find Vader and whoever that b****** Purple Sky was. Slavery couldn't be legalized. It simply couldn't be. Vader would go nuts.

Rain poured in torrents down from the angry thunderclouds above, making it difficult for Jix to see and forcing him to swerve erratically in and out of the speedways. He reminded himself that if he died out here, no one would be able to tell Vader and stop that sleemo. He tried to be a little more careful.

He skidded to a stop at the edge of CoCo Town and leapt out of the speeder. Down the way, the electric lights of Dex's Diner fizzled in the rain.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

At first Vader didn't believe the presence he felt in the back of his mind. He had specifically ordered Jix to analyze the Purple Sky demands for a pattern. He should be in his palace. Why was he in CoCo Town? What was he doing down here?

It wasn't until the door to Dex's Diner swung open and the man himself skidded inside, sopping wet, that Vader realized he had come looking for him.

"_Jix_," he hissed under his breath, glaring at the intruder.

Eera looked up from his drink curiously. "Did you say 'Jix?'"

Vader's hands clenched on the edge of the table, anger boiling inside of him. He was going to kill that man!

Upon sweeping the room and seeing Vader, Jix's eyes widened in shock. He hesitated a second, suddenly uncertain, then strode over, a determined expression on his face.

"Jix," Vader hissed, glaring at him warningly, but Jix swept forward and kneeled beside the booth.

"Lord V," he said, immediately and quickly.

Across from him, Eera mouthed, in blatant shock, _Lord V?_

Before Vader could choke him, Jix hurried on, "It's Purple Sky. We have enough information to proceed."

Vader was still for an agonizingly long time, debating about whether or not to kill Jix. At last he decided he couldn't afford to do it now. "Fine," he snapped, shoving himself to his feet and glowering down at Jix. "Let's go."

He strode out of the diner, Jix running after him, leaving Eera stunned in the booth seat behind him.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

"You could have commed me," Vader snarled, shoving Jix out of the driver's seat, slamming the door, and rocketing onto the speedway.

"Purple Sky is powerful enough to hack into the palace computers," Jix explained. "I didn't want to risk the off-chance that he may have a tap on your comlink; you're such a powerful figure." That was Jix: always thorough. Vader shot past a line of speeders at near the speed of light, and Jix swore, "By the Core, don't do that again!"

"_Shut. Up_." Vader snarled.

He punched down on the accelerator and jerked the wheel. The speeder made a vomit-inducing, ninety-degree turn that had it shooting straight up into the air and through several lanes of panicked traffic.

"Purple Sky demanded that the Emperor revoke all laws protecting humans from slavery."

"The Emperor wouldn't agree to that," insisted Vader. "He promised me."

Jix looked at him nervously. "He claimed to have the schematics of the Death Star."

The speeder accelerated at such a rate that Jix found himself physically unable to talk. Vader shot the speeder through the heavy traffic, rage boiling in him, the Dark Side thickening so much in the little speeder that Jix was gasping for air. Up to his palace he raced, rage thrumming through him, till at last he neared the colossal structure. Then the rage dissipated, replaced by shock, disbelief, and finally, the first stirrings of fear.

The baby wasn't there.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The baby wasn't there. Vader knew it before he even skidded to a stop in his private hangar, leaping out of the speeder with a look of panic on his face, all thoughts of Purple Sky vanished from his mind. Why wasn't the baby there?

"He's not here!" he hissed at Jix, breaking into a run toward the turbolift, his heart suddenly pounding.

"What?" Jix demanded, confused, running after Vader. "You need to use the other turbolifts to make it to the communication console!"

Vader snarled at him and slid inside the lift, jabbing the button for the top floor. Jix jogged in after him. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded angrily. "Slavery is about to be renewed!"

"He's not here!" Vader repeated. As the situation settled itself in his mind, an uncontrollable and unexpected fear flooded him. Why wouldn't the baby be here? Where could he be? Who would dare take him?

"Who's not here?"

"_Kor!_" Vader practically screamed, his heart racing erratically fast inside him. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and his hands trembled at his sides. He couldn't account for how panicked he felt; he didn't even like the child.

"What do you mean, he's not here?" Jix demanded as the lift doors swung open. "He has to be here!"

Vader raced down the hall, Force-blinding anyone who saw him. His heart was pounding in his chest; his stomach was in his throat. He didn't understand his irrational reaction, why the thought of his son not being safely tucked away in his crib terrified him. He burst through the door to the nursery, and his stomach dropped from under him when he caught sight of Artoo and Threepio lying on the floor, both electrocuted with droid-poppers.

"What the—" muttered Jix, upon seeing them.

But Vader had already stridden across the room to the cradle to confirm what he already knew. Still, seeing it lying empty, its blanket ruffled, Kor's toy ball still in it, made his hands shake.

"He's gone," Vader whispered in disbelief. Rage and fear surged through his body. He ran his hands through his hair, his fingers clenching. He stared around the room disbelievingly. "He's gone," he repeated.

"By the Holy Stars," Jix whispered, stunned. "Who could have taken him?"

Such a torrent of confusing emotions—rage, worry, fear, and pain—ripped through Vader that he screamed in fury. The Dark Side roared through him, and the floor-length window across the room shattered into a million, glittering pieces, raining down onto the streets of Coruscant.

Outside, people stumbled out of their speeders and houses, out of the cantinas and onto the streets, clutching each other in fear, as the air vibrated, the ground trembled, and the skyscrapers swayed dangerously, all of Imperial City shaking under Vader's anger.

Vader's Force-sense surged forth, past his palace, past the Imperial Palace, and further out into the city. He stretched and stretched his consciousness, searching desperately for the child even as the earth heaved beneath him. Then he found it—not Kor—but the circle of ysalamiri, not far away. A cold, cruel rage settled upon him as he realized what and where it was and what it meant. Outside the ground mercifully stopped shaking.

"_I'm going to kill him_," he hissed menacingly.

As if a switch had flipped inside him, Vader whirled around, suddenly controlled, but his eyes promising death. He strode out of the nursery without a word, his steps firm and purposeful, the air of murder swirling around him.

"I want to help you!" Jix jogged after him.

"No," Vader snarled. "I am going to do this _myself!_" He was going to rip that no-good, slimy, sycophantic lizard from limb to limb with his own bare hands and then put his skin on display in—

"But—"

Vader whirled on him. "Take my 501st and kill Purple Sky," he snapped. "That is your order for the evening. Do you understand?"

Jix hesitated before nodding, his lips tightening determinedly. He inclined his head respectfully, then pivoted on his heel and strode briskly down the hallway. Vader watched him for a moment, his hands trembling with rage, before grabbing his mask and speeding off towards Xizor's Palace. Tonight, the last Prince of the House of Sizhran was going to die.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Vader had had Xizor's Palace under constant surveillance for many years, and it was the knowledge he had gleaned from that operation that he used when infiltrating the castle. He entered on the lower levels, which were poorly secured. They were only a couple of guards down there, and he killed them all with a slash of his lightsaber before they had a chance to cry out. His rage and fear made the Dark Side so thick and powerful that he was almost surprised his glare alone didn't kill them. He had never felt so powerful, or so terrified.

He found the turbolift he was looking for in seconds, killed the guard guarding it, and slid in, punching the button for the topmost floor, his heart racing. Xizor was stupid enough to have a lift going all the way from his poorly-secured lower levels to his suite on top. So Vader built up his rage and fear while the lift zoomed upwards, the Dark Side so thick around the lift that anyone else would have had a difficult time breathing. He sent his consciousness forth fanatically, constantly searching for Kor's presence, and always finding that Force-dead circle of ysalamiri; those creatures presented the only obstacle.

The turbolift doors swung open, and over a thousand hired mercenaries of a thousand different species swung their guns around and took aim. Vader bared his teeth, pulling out his lightsaber and taking a defensive stance. He was going to enjoy this.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The 501st had been suiting up and preparing for battle for the past several minutes, while Jix paced anxiously in the control room, waiting for the computer's result.

"Data has been run," it announced at last.

"_And?_" Jix felt so tense he could break the thing in half. He didn't know what he'd do if no results were found, or worse, more than one.

"One possible result found," said the computer, sounding smug, "Transmitting result now."

_At last!_ Relief tinged with excitement swept through Jix, and he strode over to the computer. A savage grin crossed his face when he saw who the result was. By the Emperor's Black Heart, Vader was going to be ticked he missed this!

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The Dark Side was so strong the hired guns never even stood a chance, so fast was Vader's lightsaber, so many beings could he strangle in one swoop. He was unstoppable. His lightsaber was a blur. He shot between the mercenaries as if their defenses were non-existent. Laser-fire stopped dead in its tracks before even nearing him. Around him the room vibrated with his power, and so dangerous and deadly was Darth Vader that in minutes the force had been cut in half, and a few minutes more into another half, and another, till only a small fraction of the army remained.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

On a balcony overhead, Xizor watched as Vader decimated his men, his cool reptilian eyes flicking over the black, darting, killing form. Had he not hated Vader so much, he would have been in awe of the man's fighting ability—no man should be that unstoppable—but as it was, he saw it simply as a complication that needed to be overcome. And Xizor had planned for it.

Turning around, he nodded to the two guards behind him. "Bring in the ysalamiri."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

It started as a tremble in the Force, as if the thing itself had brushed up against something uncomfortable. Vader paid it no mind, so steeped was he in the Dark Side while slaughtering the guards. But the tremble grew stronger, and his sense of the Force grew fuzzier, and gradually Vader stilled as his awareness of the Force left him completely. Around him, the mercenaries kept their guns cocked warily, but didn't shoot.

Vader glared around, murderous rage still shooting through him, but the power of the Dark Side had gone. His hands clenched at his sides. He saw the guards holding the ysalamiri flanking the room, and he cursed himself for not paying attention to the Force earlier, when he would have been able to take care of them.

His eyes darted about, his mind mentally calculating his chances of victory over the group assembled. There were only about thirty or so mercenaries left, and he was pretty good even without the Force, but he would need to strategize—

His thoughts derailed when he saw Xizor emerge from the balcony. In his arms was a thrashing bundle of blankets, and Vader didn't need the Force to know it was his son. He became deadly still, every muscle in his body tense. Terror for his son filled him, and he glared at Xizor.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Xizor looked down at the boy in his arms and ran one long finger down the side of his face. Vader bristled, hating him touching him. "He's such a handsome child, Vader," said Xizor at last, shifting his gaze away from the baby and onto the man below, a smug smile on his face. "Congratulations. I wonder if he looks like his father or his mother." He stepped a bit closer to the railing. "Either way," he mused aloud, "I suppose this means you're human, aren't you?"

He glanced down at the baby again. "At first I wasn't sure," he said, "if the baby living in your palace was your son or simply an apprentice." He cradled the boy a bit closer, and said smugly, "But I suppose, with the ferocity of your response, he'd have to be your son, wouldn't he?"

Vader's entire body reverberated with so much rage his head spun. If only he had access to the Dark Side, he would kill the man where he stood.

"I don't suppose," said Xizor conversationally, "that you recall an aerial bombardment of a sector of Falleen, do you?"

Vader said nothing, just glared at him.

"I suppose you don't," continued Xizor, "You bomb so many planets. Must have destroyed hundreds of them by now."

Vader bristled at the implication that he destroyed without reason. And he did remember the bombardment of Falleen, quite clearly.

"A bio-weapon escaped from a lab," he hissed, his fists clenched, glaring at Xizor. "If I hadn't bombed Falleen it could have swept across the galaxy!"

Xizor's voice trembled with rage. "A bio-weapon from _YOUR LAB!_"

"THAT YOUR FATHER ASKED I PUT THERE!" Vader screamed at him.

"MY FATHER IS DEAD THANKS TO YOU!" Xizor roared at him. "MY ENTIRE FAMILY! MY PARENTS, MY BROTHER, MY SISTERS, MY UNCLES—THEY'RE ALL GONE BECAUSE _YOU_ BOMBED SIZHRAN!"

"YOUR FATHER KNEW THE RISK OF THE LAB, AND IT WAS HIS SOLDIERS THAT ALLOWED THE OUTBREAK! IF THERE IS ANYONE TO BE BLAMED FOR THE BOMBING IT IS _YOUR_ FAMILY!"

Xizor screamed. He did nothing but scream in rage, and it was a terrible, high-pitched sound. The mercenaries covered their ears, Vader flinched, and Kor started crying hysterically.

"_PUT HIM DOWN, XIZOR!_"

Xizor's skin turned bright red and he glared death down at Vader. "You will know my pain," he snarled. He extended his arms over the balcony. Kor thrashed miserably. Vader felt as if his heart had stopped.

Xizor curled his lip cruelly. "Without the Force," he whispered hatefully, his voice trembling crazily, "You will never catch him on time."

He let go.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

The second Kor dropped, Vader instinctively surged forward, his heart in his throat. At the same time, a round of blasterfire echoed through the hall, and though Vader didn't know how or why, the Force rushed back to him. He reached out desperately, still some forty yards away, and Kor slowed to a gentle rest on the floor.

Around him, the 501st stormed into the room, Jix charging ahead of them desperately shouting, "Did we get them all, Lord V? Did we get all the ysalamiri?" But Vader didn't answer and instead rushed to kneel down next to his son, picking him up and grasping him close, barely able to believe he was all right, though bawling his head off. Had Vader not still been so full of rage and fear, he might have bawled too, so inexplicably relieved was he.

"He's all right!" Jix gasped in relief, sliding down next to Kor. "He's all right," he repeated to himself, touching Kor's head with trembling fingers, as if to reassure himself. Breathing heavily, Jix looked up at Vader. "Xizor," he said, "is Purple Sky."

Vader didn't say anything, just handed Kor to Jix, his hands shaking. He couldn't process how close he had come to losing his son. Shuddering, the need to ensure this never happened again rushing through him, Vader surged to his feet and in one rage-powered jump leapt to the top of the balcony. Xizor had already fled, but Vader had a fix on that slime-ball's Force presence, and he followed it determinedly, adrenaline and anger shooting sparks down his veins, instinct screaming at him to destroy this threat. He bared his teeth, the Dark Side clouding his vision red. He was the predator, Xizor was the prey, and he was going to tear him from limb to limb.

He raced through the hall, each step carrying him twenty feet, till at last he burst into the hangar bay. Xizor was already in a pilot seat, his jet taking off. He sneered at Vader through the port window.

Vader sneered back. Xizor's final mistake: underestimating the power of the Force. With Vader as powerful as he was now, there wasn't a force in the galaxy that could stop him. As the jet backed out of the hangar, Vader reached out into the Dark Side, gathering more of it than he had ever gathered before—and Xizor's jet jerked backward from the speedway and crashed into the floor of the hangar bay, skidding to a stop a foot away from Vader.

Xizor looked up in shock, and for the first time, true terror showed on his face.

Vader bared his teeth savagely and pounced.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

After the battle, with Xizor's green blood still soaking his clothes, Vader sped back to his palace, Kor snoozing away in his front seat. Commander Cody had stayed behind at Xizor's to gather the evidence that the Falleen was Purple Sky and to fight off any remaining guards, and Vader had sent Jix off to take care of other matters. There were things Vader could have done to help clean things up at the palace, but he wanted to get Kor away from that place.

He glanced to the side, to reassure himself once more that the boy was okay. His heart clenched painfully every time he saw him bundled up in his blanket. It was incomprehensible to Vader that he had been a mere second away from losing him. Had he been any slower, his son would be dead. The thought filled him with unimaginable horror. Vader couldn't even begin to comprehend the emotions he was feeling. He hadn't even known such emotion existed.

He parked his speeder in his private hangar bay and scooped the boy up in his arms, holding him close as he strode to the turbolift. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he doubted he'd get any sleep tonight. He didn't want to put the child down.

But he would have to, Vader realized slowly, once he was inside his quarters. He would have to put the child down. He would have to let him go. It was the only way. He couldn't go through that pain again.

His hands trembled as he laid the child down on his bed. He simply stared at the boy, memorizing the soft lines of his face, the exact shade of blonde of his hair, and his blue eyes, now staring up at him sleepily. The boy did look like him; in fact, he looked almost exactly like him. But his Force signature…his Force signature…it was almost identical to his mother's. But much stronger, much more vibrant, much more alive in the Force.

He swept back a strand of hair with a shaking hand. His mind flashed to the mental picture of the boy plummeting toward the ground, and he felt his knees go weak.

The door to his quarters dinged open, and Vader whipped his head around. Jix stood in the doorway, looking exhausted and worried. Normally, Vader would have been outraged—wasn't the man _ever _where he was supposed to be?—but he was too exhausted. "What is it?" he asked wearily.

"Someone here to see you, Lord V. Appeared at the front entrance an hour ago. Absolutely insisted." And with that cryptic message, Jix inclined his head and marched away.

Vader stared after him blankly. Who…?

"Down here, Anakin."

Vader's eyes dropped, and there, standing not a foot above the floor, in the quarters of his palace, was the professor.

At first Vader didn't understand what he was seeing, but when he did, the room spun. How in the galaxy had the professor gotten here? Why was he even here? "I—" started Vader, his voice thick with emotion. Why had the Mriss come? To sever their friendship? Tell him what a psychopath he was? Whatever it was, Vader didn't want to hear it. He couldn't hear it from Eera. Not today. Not when he was about to lose Kor too.

"Go away," he finally muttered, turning on his heel and striding back towards his bedroom.

"Anakin!" He heard the Mriss pattering along the floor after him, and Vader's whole body trembled. He didn't want to hear what the Mriss had to say to him. "GO AWAY!" he shouted, striding more quickly to his bedroom. The room trembled with the Force.

"NO!" Eera screamed back.

Vader turned, stared down at him incredulously, then stalked into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He instinctively knelt down next to Kor, who was staring up at him with alarmed eyes. Heat from stress bloomed in Vader's chest. He covered his head with his hands, tearing at his hair. A confusing storm of emotions warred within him—anger, fear, frustration, pain, sorry, worry, despair, heartache—and the Force tore through his room, sending a table flying into the wall, a rug rolling back and forth erratically, and a chair crashing through his door.

"Anakin!" Eera gasped, as if in pain. Vader glanced up to see the chair that had crashed through his door was half on top of the little guy. A tremor of emotion went through him at the sight, and he waved away the chair. He turned away, though, unable to look at the professor, when he saw the Mriss struggling to his feet.

"Anakin," said Eera more softly, shuffling into the room. Vader kept his back to him, not wanting to listen to whatever he had to say. This night had been painful enough as it was. His very limbs trembled.

"Jix told me about what happened," said Eera sympathetically. Vader could picture his eyes big with worry, and his hands clenched at his sides. Why was the Mriss still being so nice to him? Didn't he understand who he was? Why wasn't he cowing away in terror?

"What are you going to do?"

Vader recalled what had happened earlier—saw the boy plummeting to the ground—and his heart lurched. He swallowed thickly. His fists at his sides grew white from strain. He couldn't live through that again. He could _never _live through that again.

"What are you going to do?"

His eyes found Kor. "I'm going to give him away," he whispered hoarsely, staring at his son in anguish. The thought was inexplicably painful. Vader's very being cried out against it, though he didn't know why.

"Why?"

Vader tore at his hair. "Because—" His voice broke. Shameful tears burned at the back of his eyes. "Because," he gasped, "I can't—I won't…" A tear slid down his cheek. "I can't love him, Eera!" He couldn't. There was no way. That road led to pain. He knew.

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes, you can," whispered Eera. Vader closed his eyes, as if to block out his words, block out the tears. "You can, Anakin, because you already do. You already love him."

"No," Vader denied. He couldn't.

"Yes," insisted Eera, sounding like was on the verge of tears himself. "You love him. You love him desperately, Anakin. But for some reason"—his voice cracked—"and I don't know what happened to you to make this way, but you hate yourself for loving him. You hate that you do. So you don't acknowledge it all. But you love him."

"No!" Vader's voice broke. "I don't love him, Eera!"

"Yes, you do!" Tears coated the Mriss's voice. "You do, Anakin! It is because you love him that you decided to keep him!"

"No!"

"It is because you love him that you visit him every day!"

"No!"

"It is because you love him that you saved him tonight, that you rushed into Xizor's palace without any thought of your own safety or the Emperor's wrath! It is because you love him that right now your heart is filled with anguish at the thought of losing him!"

"NO!" Vader screamed, his hands over his ears, his eyes screwed shut. Behind him, his glass windows shattered into a million pieces.

"YOU LOVE HIM!" Eera shouted over the sudden gust of wind. "YOU LOVE HIM MORE THAN ANYTHING, BUT FOR SOME REASON, YOU'RE AFRAID OF LOVING HIM!"

"I can't love him!" Vader screamed.

"WHY ARE YOU SO AFRAID TO LOVE?" Eera screamed back at him. "YOU'VE LOST SOMEONE BEFORE, HAVEN'T YOU? SOMEONE CLOSE TO YOU! YOU LOST THAT PERSON IN A TERRIBLE WAY, DIDN'T YOU? AND IT'S SCARRED YOU!"

"I—" started Vader, before choking back on sobs. He saw briefly the burning sands of Tatooine, and he sunk to his knees, burying his head in his hands, his throat burning with tears.

"What happened, Anakin?" Eera's claws clutched his arm. The Mriss's voice was soft and choked with tears. "Please tell me, friend."

"I—" Vader gasped, anguish filling him. Memories he had tried to forget came rushing back to him, and suddenly he was back in that ship, staring down at the homestead.

"I—"

"It's okay." Eera wept. "It's okay to talk about it."

A tear slid down Vader's face, and he closed his eyes, trying to block it, but another escaped. "I was thirteen," he choked out, "My master was training me." He choked back a sob. That had been such a terrible time. "He brought me a Senator." His voice trembled. "A Gran. He wanted me to kill him." Another tear slid down his face. "I _couldn't_," he whispered, opening his eyes and staring into space, as if seeing the man again. "I couldn't summon enough Dark Side," he whispered. "I kept on staring into his eyes, and I couldn't do it." Vader would never forget the expression on that Gran's face as he knelt before him, waiting to die.

Eera's claws clenched his arm tightly. "My master said," Vader swallowed back tears, his throat burning, "he would think of another way to motivate me." His voice shook. "Two days later, we were in a spaceship, hovering over a farmstead on Tatooine." Another tear slid down his face, and a sob escaped him. "It was where my mother lived," he whispered, his voice cracking, "with my stepfather, and my stepbrother. I saw her." Vader stared into the distance, a tear sliding down his cheek, seeing in his mind's eye his mother's black hair shining in the rays of the double suns. "She was outside," he said distantly, "She was working on the vaporators." A pause. "She enjoyed being outside in the early morning. It was the nicest time of day on Tatooine." There was a long silence in which Vader's hands shook and his face was twisted in pain. At last he shuddered and choked out, "My master said—he told me—told me that he would count to ten," another tear slid down his face, burning, "and that if the Gran wasn't dead by the time he had finished counting, he would blow up the farmstead. And my mother." Vader's voice shook. He closed his eyes, but tears leaked out beneath his eyelids. He gasped. "I _tried!_"

There was a brief silence in the room, broken only by the gusts of wind and Kor thrashing around on the bed.

"Afterwards," Vader's voice was steadier, though it still trembled a bit, "I was able to kill the Gran."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

"It's not your fault," said Eera sometime later, stroking Vader's arm. He sounded weepy. "It's not your fault your mother died. And there's no guarantee something like that will happen to Kor."

"It almost happened tonight!" Vader wouldn't have been able to bear it.

"But you stopped it," said Eera. "You are strong now! More powerful than you were then. You can protect your son the way you couldn't protect your mother."

Vader looked down at Kor, swallowing thickly.

"Keep him, Anakin," implored Eera. "He is good for you." He was Vader's only link to humanity.

Vader hesitated. He couldn't go through that pain again.

"Love hurts," whispered Eera. "It hurts when you lose someone. But it's worth it. I promise. It's worth it."

Vader looked like he was swallowing back tears.

"Keep him, Anakin. Don't you think your mother would have wanted you to keep him? Do it," Eera implored. "For her."

A tear slid down Vader's face.

But he nodded.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Vader knelt before the Emperor in the throne room of the Imperial Palace, his mask carefully over his face. The Emperor's councilors milled along the side of the room.

"Lord Vader," said the Emperor, sounding displeased, "I hope you have a good explanation for the events of tonight."

Of all those in the room, only Vader understood that the Emperor meant both the death of Xizor and the sudden surge in the Dark Side. Vader felt no need to explain that the surge was in any way related to his son. There was no reason for the Emperor to get any dangerous ideas. Luckily, there was another, ready-made explanation.

"Indeed, my master," said Vader, bowing his head low. "I learned of the most recent demands of Purple Sky." That was reason enough to incite Vader's rage. Both he and the Emperor knew why. Through their master-apprentice bond, Vader felt the Emperor absorb this information. "I was able to use the demands," Vader continued, "to determine the identity of Purple Sky."

"Oh?" His master arched an eyebrow. Vader felt the man's attention divert immediately from the issue of the surge in the Dark Side, anticipation singing through him.

"Yes, my master." Vader pulled out beneath his robe the infamous mask of Purple Sky, eliciting gasps from the assembled council members. "This," he said, "was found in the private quarters of Prince Xizor."

And as the Emperor took the mask, his shock and rage resonating in the Force, no more questions about the surge in the Dark Side were asked.


End file.
